


The War Inside

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Angel, Pining, Pining Demon, Slow Burn, Soft Angel, just Crowley being Crowley really, soft demon, some minor angst, vague mentions of sexy things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25166419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: This is your standard (mostly canon) slow burn fic with a happy ending. I took a break from writing Good Omens and I missed these boys and just wanted to write them falling in love again.I went in a slightly different direction with a grumpy Crowley who doesn't figure out his feelings right away. He does though...eventually.I hope you like it :)Thanks as always to emilycare. Without your support, this wouldn't be nearly as much fun. <3
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 69





	The War Inside

**Author's Note:**

> This is your standard (mostly canon) slow burn fic with a happy ending. I took a break from writing Good Omens and I missed these boys and just wanted to write them falling in love again. 
> 
> I went in a slightly different direction with a grumpy Crowley who doesn't figure out his feelings right away. He does though...eventually. 
> 
> I hope you like it :)
> 
> Thanks as always to emilycare. Without your support, this wouldn't be nearly as much fun. <3

“Look. All you have to do is follow the guy around and spy on him. Just keep an eye out and report back anything you see that’s interesting. A moron could do it.”

The unspoken part, the ‘ _that’s why we’re asking you’,_ did not need to be stated out loud. Crawly nodded stiffly, trying not to look too long at any one part of Beelzebub’s horrid face.

These meetings, in which the Duke of Hell gave him instructions for his next assignment and then the resulting check-ins as Crawly reported on his progress, were always highly unpleasant. How could they not be? Meeting in the dank, grim hallways of Hell, surrounded by shambling demons and the steady, endless drop of water from some unknown source as it splattered to the filthy floor. There would always be dripping water. There would always be shambling demons. There would always be Lord Beelzebub, face looking like the inside of a rarely-cleaned microwave oven. 

But hey, it was a job right? And let's face it, it was all Crawly deserved. Cast out by The Almighty, feathers burned black and eyes turned a sickly, reptilian yellow, he was clearly no longer entitled to the cushy life or pretty face of an angel. He’d asked far too many questions, had made a right nuisance of himself, and this was his price to pay. 

“Yeh,” he replied. “Yeah, I get it. Keep an eye on the moron and let you know what he does. Simple enough.” He dug his hands deeper into the folds of his dark robe and shrugged noncommittally. Show too much eagerness to please and they only heaped more responsibility on him. Too aloof, and they’d start to get suspicious. 

“Right. He’s up there now, faffing about in The Garden. Sidle up and say hello. Ask what he’s up to. _Make friends_. Maybe offer him a snack. He seems to love eating, if that fat belly is any indication. He looks like he’d believe anything you told him. You know how those angels get. They spend so much time Up There that they have no clue what’s going on anywhere else. When you’ve had a chat with him, come back and tell me what you find out. If you do a good job, we’ll let you stay up there. Get some sun. See the sights. But, if you mess this up, you’ll get assigned to desk work for the next millennium. That clear?”

“Yeah boss. Clear as a bell.” Crawly executed what he thought was an amiable smile and a small bow and turned to leave. 

“And Crawly…” Beelzebub’s voice, sharp and suspicious halted his retreat momentarily. 

“Yeah boss?” 

“Don’t fuck this up Crawly. I mean it.”

“Yeah boss.” 

  
  


__________________________________________

  
  


The angel was indeed faffing about. Crawly watched him from his vantage point of hiding in the shadows, coiled into the form of a large, black snake as the angel wandered here and there, admiring the many trees and brooks and glades of The Garden. He was humming a distracted little tune and yes, eating quite a lot of fruit (especially pears). He was a simple creature indeed, seeming to want nothing more than to dangle his plump bare feet in cool water, or to sit and bask in the golden sunlight on a soft patch of grass, his wide, friendly face turned up to soak up the warmth. 

The angel also spent some time in polite conversation with Adam and Eve. Their gleaming, mahogany skin and fine facial features making him look a little like a large potato in a toga by comparison. They did however, seem to enjoy his company very much. Eve would giggle and lay a companionable hand against his arm, and Adam would pat him on the back and nod as if he were actually interested in what the angel had to say. Crawly was not close enough to overhear them, but they certainly looked like they were enjoying themselves. Idiots.

By the time the sun began to change position in the sky, sinking lower over the desert beyond the Garden walls, Crawly knew he’d better introduce himself soon. Those were his instructions right? Say hello, make friends? First though, he couldn’t help but cause some mischief. It was in his nature wasn’t it? Making trouble?

He slithered over to Eve and whispered in her ear that she should eat the apple of Knowledge. How delicious it looked. How sweet and tasty it would be. Eve, being as intelligent as Adam (which wasn’t saying much), immediately went and plucked an apple from the Tree of Knowledge and bit into it with her perfect white teeth. Then, with a surprised gasp, she realized that she was naked. And because misery loves company, she brought the apple to her husband and urged him to try it as well. At this point, Crawly thought it would behoove him to slink back into the tall grasses and hide. It was never a good idea to hang around the scene of one’s crime. 

His temptation (more of a suggestion really) ended up causing quite a bit of unanticipated drama. Adam ate from the apple, and then he too got very shy and tried to cover his twig and berries with...well...with twigs and berries. Eve found some strategic greenery to cover up her naughty bits as well and they went together, sobbing, to tell the angel what had happened. Crawly waited, coiled under the shade of a nearby fig tree, knowing that any minute the angel would brandish his flaming sword and go on a rampage to find Crawly and chop his head off. To slay the evil beast of Satan as it were. 

Not that Crawly was really worried. Principalities were strong, true, but Crawly’s serpent body was ten feet of thick muscle and ironclad scales. And even if he couldn’t overpower the plump angel (who, to be honest, looked like he did not get that much exercise), he could always flee back Downstairs and wait the situation out. He could be quite a fast slitherer if and when the need arose. 

But surprisingly, the angel did not brandish his sword. He didn’t yell or tear at his hair or stomp his feet. He simply looked at Adam and Eve sorrowfully and led them off, away from where Crawly was hiding, perhaps to have a private conversation? Crawly wasn’t sure. 

An hour or so later, he watched as Adam and Eve made their way cautiously out onto the sands of the desert and away from the paradise of The Garden. Apparently, the angel had banished them? _Must be orders from on high,_ thought Crawly resentfully. God was good at banishments. Crawly knew this from painful experience. 

Hell on the other hand wouldn’t banish you. Hell was the sort of place one was banished _to._ Instead, they’d just make your life a living...well you get the picture. And in any case, doing bad things was par for the course Downstairs. But Upstairs? They had so many rules and regulations. It made the ache of his fall ease momentarily to think of how stuffy it had likely been up there (not that he remembered...he wasn’t allowed to remember). 

Well, there was no putting it off now. He had to introduce himself to the angel and get this over with. Crawly sighed, picturing a long, dull existence with only one boring angel for company, as he slithered up the wall and assumed his human form. He turned to the angel and said his most casual opening line.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

The angel glanced at him, then did a double take. He was probably somewhat surprised that the large, black snake he’d seen slithering about recently was actually a red haired demon with yellow eyes. Crawly didn’t blame him. He knew his human form was ungainly and ugly and awkward looking. The angel’s face however, did not register any hatred or fear...or even disgust for that matter. He looked taken aback yes, but this was instantly replaced with an expression of shy politeness. His eyes, (rather large and blue gray...or was it gray green? Hard to tell in the fading light of the desert sunset) flitted nervously at Crawly and away again, and he twisted his hands together over his soft belly. 

Aziraphale. That was the angel’s name. Of course it was. They all had long, incomprehensible names. Crawly himself had likely once had a long, incomprehensible name, though he had not been allowed to remember it.

_Ah-zee-rah-fail_. It didn’t exactly trip off the tongue. Regardless, Crawly had introduced himself with a polite nod and they’d made pleasant conversation. 

It was then, not two minutes after meeting Aziraphale that Crawly noticed his flaming sword was missing. He asked where it had gone, and Aziraphale, flushing slightly with obvious embarrassment had mentioned that he’d given it away.

_He’d given it away._ Crawly’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in shock.

Could one even do that sort of thing if one were an angel? Didn’t Heaven keep careful track of things like flaming swords and bottomless chalices? Surely there were records? Crawly did a few swift adjustments to his assumptions about the angel’s character. Maybe the soft, plump creature in the pristine white robes was something of a rebel? Perhaps he too had asked some uncomfortable questions? Done some not-quite-sanctioned miracles? One look at Aziraphale’s broad smiling face though made him seriously doubt that this was the situation. More likely, the bloke was simply addle brained enough to give away a flaming sword without thinking of the consequences. He’d probably be punished severely for it too, poor chap. Crawly didn’t relish the idea of Aziraphale falling like he had, but if Crawly was given the boot over something as minor as asking questions, giving a flaming sword away had to result in some pretty heavy penalties. He supposed he’d wait and see. 

A low rumble sounded in the distance and water began to fall from the sky in irritating little drips, striking Crawly unpleasantly on the face. He flinched at the first drops before he remembered that this was “rain.” It was the way God had planned to make living plants grow and flourish so that the earth could be populated with verdant fecundity, (or something like that). Hell had been talking about it for a few weeks now. It was one of the first of millions of the Almighty’s natural inventions. 

Both sides knew the entirety of human invention and the entire catalogue of living creatures that would one day populate the planet. The knowledge was just there, loaded into their brains. They knew what double decker buses were and what computers were. They knew about toast and guillotines and forks and plastic bags. They just hadn’t seen them in action yet. (And to be fair, Hastur wasn’t clear on the computers thing at all). 

Unpleasant stuff, rain. Who enjoyed having water dribbled onto one’s head without one’s permission? Miserable stuff indeed. 

Suddenly, a dark shadow swept over Crawly’s head and he felt the rain cease. He was momentarily confused until he looked up into a canopy of fluffy white feathers. The angel had extended a wing over him to shelter him from the rain. Crawly shoved down the warm gratitude he felt inside his chest at the creature’s kindness to a total stranger (a demon to boot!) and busied himself with thinking smugly that Aziraphale was quite the sucker. Offering shelter to a total stranger. A stranger who was supposed to be his _enemy_ no less. Still...he couldn’t help but sidle a bit closer. He did hate rain after all. 

Out on the dessert, Adam and Eve trundled onward to meet their fate. The sun glimmered on the horizon and then sank below it, casting the Garden in darkness. 

Aziraphale however seemed to glow with faint luminescence. “My,” he said with a soft voice, full of wonder. “That rain was quite refreshing! And luckily for us, the thunderstorm didn’t block the sunset. Wasn’t it just lovely? All those pinks and golds and oranges?”

“Yeah, it was great,” Crawly replied, stepping awkwardly out from under the angel’s wing and resettling his black (slightly damp) robes around himself with a shrug. The angel was relentlessly cheerful, he could tell already. _Get used to several thousand more years of that perky disposition_ , he thought glumly. 

“Well, it was nice meeting you. I’d better be heading out myself. Got demon stuff to do,” he said. 

“Oh, yes. It was indeed a pleasure to meet you as well Crawly. Perhaps we shall meet again someday soon?”

_Poor sod_ thought Crawly. _He’ll be fleeced for sure with a trusting nature like that._ “Yeah. You can count on it,” he replied, feeling just a little bit regretful that he’d been tasked to spy on the angel. “You’ll be seeing me around for sure,” he added with a terse nod. Then he transformed back into a snake and slithered away to report back Downstairs. 

  
  


_______________________

  
  


“He did what?!” Beelzebub seemed surprised. Or at least Crawly assumed they were surprised based on the tone of their voice. He usually tried his best not to look directly at their face if he could avoid it. 

“He um...He sheltered me...from the rain...with…his wing.” Crowley couldn’t help feel a little silly reporting this fact. As is somehow it were Crawly’s fault that the angel had done this strange act of kindness. 

“This is your fault you know,” Beelzebub sneered at him.

“How do you figure?!” Crawly should have known. He rolled his eyes...inwardly.

“I said _have a chat_ with him. I didn’t say _work your demon sex mojo_ on him.”

“What?! I wouldn’t dream of-”

“How else did you get him to moon over you so quickly? You’re not much to look at Crawly. And though you have a certain charm, there is no way an angel, fresh from Upstairs is going to shelter you from the rain and treat you so nicely, especially after you messed about with God’s favorites.” (they meant Adam and Eve of course)

“I did no such thing!” Crawly was as indignant as a demon who’d just spent the afternoon causing trouble could be. “I just said hello and chatted with him for five minutes and then it started raining, and then he...he just did it! It had nothing to do with me.”

“Fine, whatever,” Beelzebub let out an impatient huff of a sigh. “What else happened?”

“He uh...he gave his flaming sword away, to the male human.” 

“He _what_?!!” 

“I _know!_ ” Crawly shrugged in an exasperated fashion. “Pretty sure we’ll be getting a new demon down here when She hears about that little stunt.”

Beelzebub almost looked impressed. “Angels can’t...disobey like that and get away with it,” they remarked unnecessarily, crusty mouth gaping open in shock. 

“Yeah, poor sod.” Crawly did really feel bad for Aziraphale. He’d seemed like quite a nice chap. He definitely didn’t deserve what he most certainly had coming to him.

“Anything else?” They asked.

“Not really no. He wasn’t doing anything of note up there. Eating a bunch of fruit and chatting with the humans. That’s the long and the short of it.” 

“Alright. Well, keep keeping an eye on him then. Keep up the friendship angle, and find out what you can. Unless of course he gets sent down here, and then, well...it’ll be a moot point won’t it?”

“Yeh,” nodded Crawly. 

“Report in every few centuries. That should just about do it. Heaven doesn’t exactly make lightning quick moves in the secretive plans department. It’ll probably take Her and the rest of those twats a good century to do anything else worth noting. In the meantime...I don’t know...enjoy yourself? Do your temptations. Have some roast lamb. Learn a new hobby. Consider it a little vacation. You’ve earned it. Nice job with tweedle dee and tweedle dumber by the way.” (again referring to Adam and Eve). 

“Thanks boss,” Crawly said, and he meant it. It felt good to have a little praise, to be told he’d done well and be given a reprieve from having to spend time in this corporate nightmare with the dripping and the shambling and the screams of agony and what have you. 

He headed back up topside with a flicker of curious excitement in his chest. Maybe spying on the angel wouldn’t be as boring as he’d thought it would be?

________________________________________________

  
  


Spying on Aziraphale was really boring. The angel was just so _nice_ all the time. And what’s worse, he apparently didn’t get into any trouble at all for the sword stunt. He continued being plump and agreeable and irritatingly curious about the world around him, and did not at all plummet from Heaven into vast, steaming pits of sulfur the way Crawly had feared he might when they’d learned about the angel’s little transgression.

Crawly was of two minds about this. On the one hand, though the angel was dull as a bag of wool socks and simple minded to boot, he _was_ a nice person, and nice people didn’t deserve to be punished for the mistakes they made. Especially mistakes involving handing a flaming weapon to a pair of defenseless newlyweds who were about to make their way across a desert fraught with unknown peril. Crawly himself was not a nice person. He never had been, and he had a feeling, (though of course he couldn’t remember) that even when he’d been Upstairs, he hadn’t been exactly _nice_. Nice was simple and uninteresting and bland, and Crawly was anything but.

On the other hand, he resented the angel. No one had spared Crawly when he’d been tossed down into the pit for the simple crime of asking questions. How did this bumbling idiot in the soft white robes with the soft white smile end up dodging punishment for something so outrageously rebellious as giving his flaming sword away, when Crawly had to suffer an eternity in the burning pits for nothing more than having a curious mind? It seemed horribly unfair. And what was worse, Aziraphale didn’t even seem to realize the bullet he’d just dodged. He went along his merry way, making friends with the crowds of new humans that cropped up in the desert. He helped them build huts and taught them about weaving cloth and gave them helpful hints on ways to cook goat to make it extra tender. He just went about the business of being an angel with nary a thought to how narrowly he’d avoided falling. 

Crawly shadowed him pretty closely. There was really no one else of interest to spy on, and he didn’t relish the idea of making friends with the humans. Instead, he tempted them to acts of selfishness and greed, lust and laziness. It was pathetically easy. Humans loved pleasure, and wealth and status. If you dangled a tempting enough prospect in front of them, they, like a cat with a toy, would swipe at the chance to sin in order to obtain that thing...whether it be a new lover, a promotion, or simply a bag of bread rolls stolen from the village bakery. 

He never went too far with the temptations. He just caused enough trouble to have stuff to report on when he met up with Beelzebub a few decades from now. He didn’t actually like it when humans were really, truly miserable, so he just settled for making them irritable or glum instead. 

He and Aziraphale spoke briefly now and then. Crawly would saunter on by Aziraphale’s little hut on the outskirts of this or that village and remark casually on local politics or make a crude joke (which always went right over the angel’s head), and Aziraphale would respond with his beaming smile and would chat away amiably for a while. As if Crawly were not a hideous demon and his enemy. As if Crawly were some sort of….friend. It was unsettling and a little concerning. The poor sap could so easily be taken in by someone with impure motives. He really shouldn’t go about trusting people like Crawly. 

Then, one day in 3004 BC, Crawly spotted the angel standing among a group of grubby humans and staring at a very _very_ large wooden boat. Aziraphale was so ridiculously easy to spot, being that he glowed softly like a low wattage light bulb wherever he went, and by comparison, the humans around him looked like piles of dirty rags with beards. All one had to do to find the angel was look around casually until one saw a soft, glowing thing, and there he was. 

Crawly sidled up and asked what was happening, keeping it very casual so as to not betray his curiosity. 

It was an _ark_ apparently. And Noah was loading it up with pairs of animals, in preparation to float away upon the waters of a great flood that was coming. All the other villagers had laughed at Noah and called him a paranoid fool, but unfortunately (the angel said) Noah was indeed correct. A massive flood was on its way in the form of many many days of hard rain. God, in all Her mysterious and infinite wisdom, had seen fit to spare this one random human and his family, along with two of every existing animal with which to repopulate the earth, once everyone else was heartlessly drowned that is. 

Crawly was struck speechless for a moment. And when Aziraphale confirmed his fears, that all the other villagers and _all_ the locals (including the children!) were to be murdered in the process...well, he couldn’t do anything other than stare, open mouthed at the angel. To his credit, Aziraphale didn’t seem happy about the proceedings either. But he didn’t do anything to stop it. He didn’t warn the other humans that Noah had a point. He didn’t do anything, other than twist his hands together and furrow his brow into a worried wrinkle. 

They stood together and watched as the rain started to fall, and this time, there was no white canopy of feathers for Crawly to shelter under. At first, the humans didn’t seem to care that it had begun to rain. Rain in the desert, though uncommon, wasn’t unheard of. They simply went about their day. 

But the rain didn’t stop. It kept coming, and it grew heavier and faster as the days went by. It pelted down relentlessly, until all the humans were drowned in a great torrent of dark waters. Crawly watched the whole thing from a high hill that could only be reached by use of his black wings. He sat and watched and wept with sorrow for all the dying humans and their children. He couldn’t help but weep. He wasn’t heartless. Not like God apparently. Crawly had a heart, despite the fact that it was small and charred and hadn’t felt love in Satan only knew how long. 

A fluttering noise behind him alerted him to the arrival of Aziraphale on the hilltop. Crawly was in no mood to see him. Not now anyway. But since there were precious few other places to go that weren’t completely underwater, he suffered the angel’s company for the time being. 

“I didn’t know until it was too late,” the angel said softly, from somewhere behind Crawly. “I swear it Crawly. They only told me a few days before it was slated to happen, and at that point, there wasn’t any use in warning anyone. There was nowhere else to go.” 

“Yeah. OK. Whatever,” Crawly mumbled. “I don’t actually care. Who am I to care what She does to get her kicks. I’m just a demon after all.” 

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. “Have you been...crying?” he asked, and Crawly flinched. 

“No!” he snapped. “Of course I haven’t been crying. Crying is what humans do. I’m a big, bad demon. Demons don’t cry.” 

Another pregnant silence from the angel over his shoulder. 

“Of course Crawly. I haven’t forgotten that fact. I just...your eyes look a little bit red is all.” 

“My eyes are yellow!’ Crawly was truly irritated now. Why wouldn’t the angel let him alone with his grief and disappointment? “In case you hadn’t noticed angel, I have _sickly bright yellow eyes_. They aren’t red from crying. And they aren’t all misty and shiny like yours. I have demon eyes and demons. Don’t. Cry. And that’s that!”

He wasn’t really making sense, but that didn’t seem to matter. All he wanted was for Aziraphale to leave him alone. 

“Perhaps we could...share some wine and...I don’t know....have a chat? If you were feeling lonely, or a little sad. I find that some wine and a chat always helps me feel better.”

“I don’t want wine and a chat angel! I want to be left alone!” Crawly had rounded on Aziraphale now, his fists clenched and his slightly pointy teeth bared in an angry rictus. “You can’t solve everything wrong with a cup of wine and a _chat._ You’re so bloody simple minded sometimes.”

“Well...I…” Aziraphale’s eyes went wide and his soft mouth gaped open in surprise at Crawly's display of temper. “There’s no need for rudeness Crawly. I was simply trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help! So please go away!” Crawly turned back around and hunched his shoulders, curling his black wings (which were still deployed) around him like a blanket and looked back down at the endless expanse of murderous waters below them. 

“I’d love to oblige you Crawly, but as you can clearly see, there isn’t anywhere else _to_ go. This is the only piece of land left on earth. So perhaps we could simply ignore one another.”

Was that a tremor in the angel’s voice? “Yeah, perhaps that’s what we should do,” Crawly snapped. He found a good patch of grass and settled down cross legged on it, banishing his wings, (they were useless for the time being anyway) and folding his arms over his chest. He heard the angel settle down nearby and he strengthened his resolution to ignore the simple creature. 

A few hours went by, or perhaps it was days? Weeks? Crawly didn’t know. He had slipped into quite a funk, and barely noticed when the waters slowly receded and little plots of damp earth began to peek above the waves. Eventually, a new landscape was revealed. It was wetter and greener than the desert that had preceded it. Crawly looked glumly down at the damp and gleaming hills and valleys spread out below him. 

“Well, as there is now plenty of land down below, I’ll take my leave shall I?” the angel spoke up from his seat nearby and Crawly shrugged in a noncommittal fashion.

“There really was nothing I could have done Crawly. I mean that,” Aziraphale said, sounding miserable. Crawly couldn’t bring himself to say anything in response. Instead he unfolded his wings from the astral plane and flew off without looking back. 

  
  


________________________________________________

  
  


“So, the flood went off without a hitch?” Beelzebub asked. 

“You knew about this?!” Crawly shouldn’t have been surprised, but still, he felt a little heads up would have been appreciated.

“Yeah, of course. I’m upper management. This sort of thing is for me to know and for you to...not know.” Beelzebub retorted smugly, and Crawly repressed a sudden urge to throttle them. 

“Well if by ‘went off without a hitch’, you mean that thousands of innocent humans were sent to a painful, watery grave, then yes. It went off without a hitch,” Crawly couldn’t help but sound a little bitter. 

“Don’t go soft on me now Crawly. You’re a demon. Watching horrible, miserable things happen is part of the job description.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Crawly thought he’d better drop the subject before he said something he’d regret. 

“What happened during the flood? Did the angel sweep you up in his arms and carry you to safety?” Their mocking tone came through loud and clear. 

Crawly bristled. “No! The bastard just flew off to a hilltop and watched it all happen with me. Said there was nothing he could have done to stop it.”

“He’s right you know,” Beelzebub remarked, casually picking a maggot off the front of their black jacket and flicking it away as if it were a biscuit crumb. “He doesn’t really have any say in policy decisions.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” Crawly sighed and shoved his hands into the folds of his robes. “What’s next?”

“Oh, just head back Upstairs and keep an eye on the angel some more. Chat him up like usual. Find out what they’re planning next. We have some intel, but we can never be sure if it’s misinformation. We need an agent in the field as it were.”

“Fine,” Crawly relented. “Whatever your Dukeship wishes.” And with that he slunk off back Upstairs to suss out how the earth was doing post-massive killer flood. 

`

_______________________________________________________

  
  


They met again at the crucifixion of Christ. Crowley (for he’d decided to change his name to something a tad more respectable) had to wonder why he always seemed to run into the angel at horrible pivotal points in human history. Couldn’t they for once meet in a sunny glade by a babbling brook and just chat about the weather for five minutes? Why was someone always being horribly inconvenienced (or murdered) when he saw the angel? 

Now, the two of them, the demon and the angel, stood side by side and watched as the poor man with the cut in his side and the crown of thorns was hoisted painfully into the air. The conversation had taken what was becoming a depressingly common direction. Aziraphale swore that he had no say in who lived and who died. He reminded Crowley that it was the _humans_ who’d decided to murder Jesus, without help from any celestial forces. 

Crowley had tried to impress upon Aziraphale that his name was _Crowley_ now, not Crawly, and the angel promptly forgot. It wasn’t the most impressive of meetings. After the crucifixion, they went their separate ways. 

  
  


__________________________________

  
  


They met again in Rome, eight years later. Crowley had been sitting at the bar, minding his own business, still feeling very grumpy about the startlingly evil things humanity had cooked up to do to each other over the centuries. This of course didn’t stop him for taking credit for a lot of it. The check in reports wrote themselves. And so what if he didn’t actually cause political overthrows or plagues or religious mass murders? He’d _been_ _there_ hadn’t he? Duke Beelzebub didn’t need to know that Crowley had in no way shape or form brought about the Punic Wars did they?

He’d just taken his first sip of “house brown” when the angel approached him. Crowley was in no mood to chat, especially with the Aziraphale. But, since he was tasked with mining the poor sap for information, he might as well be civil. After snapping at Aziraphale a couple of times, he gave in under the onslaught of the angel’s relentless cheerfulness and asked why he was in town. 

It was then that Aziraphale made that joke about tempting him to eat at Petronus’s place. Crowley almost fell off his stool he was so surprised. Here was this fluffy, smiley, flaxen haired simpleton _yet again_ breaking the rules. First giving away his flaming sword, and now joking with a demon about temptation!

Crowley leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his drink and shot Aziraphale a measured look over the tinted lenses of his new shades. 

“You...you don’t have to try oysters if you don’t want to Crawly,” the angel stammered, possibly realizing the full measure of what he’d just said. His cheeks had gone pink and he’d started twisting his hands together like he always did when he was nervous.

“Did you just try and _tempt me?_ And it’s _Crowley_ now by the way. I’ve reminded you fourteen times.” Crowley was not about to let the angel off so easily. You didn’t try to tempt a demon and then just let the subject drop.

“I did no such thing! It was just a turn of phrase. Just trying to be friendly, that’s all.”

“Lets go,” Crowley responded with a wicked grin. _Lets see if he’ll double down_ , he thought with a mischievous, decidedly demonic thrill in the pit of his stomach. There was a part of him that enjoyed poking at Aziraphale’s angel sensibilities, corrupt as they were.

“Lets go? Go where Craw-Crowley?”

“To Petronius’s restaurant. I’d like to see these ‘marvelous things’ he’s done to his oysters.”

“Oh! You want to...eat together?”

“Well, when you say it like _that,_ it doesn’t sound very appealing now does it? Satan’s sandals Aziraphale. I didn’t suggest that we burn down a church together. It’s just lunch.”   
  


“Just...lunch…” Apparently, Crowley’s suggestion had broken Aziraphale’s concentration irrevocably. He stared at the demon with his mouth hanging open in shock. 

“Don’t look at me that way. _You’re_ the one who tempted _me_. And it worked! Good job! Now where is this restaurant you’re so keen on? And it’s your treat by the way. You’re not allowed to invite a chap to lunch and then not pay for the food. Wouldn’t be very angelic of you would it?”

“Oh...it’s...it’s only a few blocks away. Do you really want to eat with me?”

Crowley sighed and took another sip of the truly horrid wine he’d purchased. He snapped his fingers and it instantly became a very fine vintage with an oaky bouquet and fruity undertones. “Yes. I really want to eat with you,” he said, in a tone of voice that conveyed _because I’m bored off my noggin and you’re paying_. 

“Well, if you really truly-”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley stood up from his stool at the taburna and fixed Aziraphale with a stern look. “You need to relax and learn to go with the flow. _Also_ , you need to take responsibility for your actions. _You tempted me to eat oysters_. You can’t just back out of a thing like that. Now let’s go. I’m actually hungry, which doesn’t happen often, and I’m very curious about this Petronius and the things he does to seafood.”

Aziraphale relented, still blushing, and led Crowley out of the taberna and onto the street. From there, it was only a matter of a few minutes walking, down narrow cobbled streets and dirt alleys until they found Petronius’ restaurant. After Aziraphale had stammered his way through ordering the food, they sat back, both with cups of wine and waited for the fabled oysters to arrive. 

“So,” Crowley began, taking a long sip of wine and assessing Aziraphale over the rim of his cup through tinted lenses. “What’s been going on Upstairs? Hear anything interesting?”

“Crowley, you know I can’t discuss that sort of thing with you.” Aziraphale avoided looking Crowley in the eye and instead gazed down into his own wine cup. Crowley noted that he had not stopped blushing. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m ‘the enemy’. But I’m not mining you for information. Just...what else are we supposed to talk about? We’re both always at work aren’t we? It’s a 24/7 job. What is there to discuss _other_ than work?”

“Well, you do have a point,” Aziraphale admitted, still very pink in the face. 

“So...what’s going on over on your side of the fence? Any interesting blessings lately?”

“Oh! Yes! I did recently heal the sick child of a poor fisherman down at the docs, and I blessed a seamstress with some extra customers because she was struggling to pay the rent. It was rather lovely.”

Crowley yawned. “Don’t you ever do anything exciting?” He asked. 

“Exciting? I don’t quite-”

“Yeah angel...don’t you ever smite anyone? Bring down God’s wrath upon anyone’s head? You must have done _some_ smiting in your time on earth.”

Aziraphale seemed strangely insulted by this suggestion. “I’ll have you know Crowley that I am staunchly opposed to violence. As an angel of the Lord-”

“I’m gonna have to stop you right there Aziraphale.” Crowley put up a hand and Aziraphale’s voice faltered and fell silent. “‘An angel of the Lord’ is historically one of the most violent job descriptions out there. Look at what’s his name? Sandleface?”

“Sandalphon” Aziraphale corrected him, not without a hint of irritability.

“Sandalphon...yeah. Look at that bloke. All he does is smite people. Remember Sodom and Gamorrah? That was some A Level smiting he was doing. The guy is a bit of a sadist if you ask me.”

“Alright, fine. So let's put aside for a moment that I’m an angel. As an _individual_ , I don’t believe in violence as a solution to problems.”

“As an _individual_ ??” Crowley’s copper colored eyebrows crept up his forehead in disbelief. “You aren’t an _individual_ Aziraphale. Neither am I. I’m a demon and you’re an angel. Individuality doesn’t come into it.”

“Well,” retorted Aziraphale, “If you’re not an individual then why are you here, having lunch with me? Wouldn’t your standard demon not be allowed anywhere near your standard angel?”

Crowley blinked. Aziraphale had a point. He cleared his throat. “Well…” he said inarticulately. “I um...well yeah. I suppose the two of us are more individualistic than most. What’s your point?”

“My point _is_ that I, Aziraphale, Principality of Heaven and once guardian of the Eastern Gate, am opposed to violence as a solution to problems.” Aziraphale said with a sort of goody-two-shoes pride in his moral high ground that set Crowley’s teeth on edge. 

“Well good for you,” Crowley grumped, taking another long swig. 

“Are you telling me Crowley, that you approve of violence as a solution to problems?” There was a strange tone to his voice, as if he feared hearing the answer. 

“Angel, you’re not seriously asking a _demon_ if he’s pro violence are you?”

“Yes...yes I am,” Aziraphale was looking at him steadily and Crowley realized (regrettably) that he couldn’t put the angel off with a snide comment. 

“Oh, well... _in theory_ , I’m pro violence. I just don’t really...practice it...myself. Not so much,” he mumbled, feeling suddenly a bit foolish. 

“Soooo,” Aziraphale drew the word out and looked up at Crowley through lashes that were far too thick to be human. “What you’re saying is that we’re both opposed to violence, even though traditionally, our sides have resorted to it quite often as a way to solve problems?”

Crowley swallowed thickly. How had he let himself be bamboozled by the angel this thoroughly? Must be something in the wine. “Yeah,” he replied, admitting defeat with a sigh. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

“And if we are two singular beings who are opposed to violence, wouldn’t you say that we count as _individuals_?”

“Shut up,” said Crowley. It was the best argument he could come up with. And it didn’t matter in any case, because just then, the oysters arrived, and they were both mercifully distracted with the inspecting of them. 

Crowley, with instructions from Aziraphale, squeezed some lemon juice onto one of the wet, rubbery looking things and knocked it back. It was...interesting. Fishy and citrusy from the lemon, and with a hint of sea salt. Not bad. He said as much and was rewarded with a beaming smile from the angel, who then set about devouring a large portion of the remaining oysters with gusto. 

Crowley had another oyster and washed it down with some more wine, but he left the rest of the tray to Aziraphale. Also, he was afraid he’d lose a finger if he got in the angel’s way. 

After they ate, there was more wine. And after that, there was even more wine. By the time the sun had set, they were both completely pissed. The conversation had turned from what Heaven was planning to do next to the price of togas, to recommendations of tabernas that carried good vintages and onward to still more random topics that kept Crowley surprisingly entertained. 

“And so, I said to the merchant...I said...you can’t just sell your daughter to that soldier. She’s a _person_ and she has a will of her own!” Aziraphale was slurring his words a bit at this point and had begun to sway gently on his stool. “And he said ‘she’s _my_ daughter and I can sell her if I want!’ and then, well I had to show him my True Form and get a bit techy. That calmed him right down. He left off the whole selling his daughter business and asked her whom she’d like to marry of her own accord.”

“Hold on there a moment angel,” Crowley, also swaying and slurring quite a bit, put his hand up to stop Aziraphale’s meandering story. “What do you mean your ‘True Form’? Aren’t you in your ‘True Form’ right now?”

“Oh dear me no!” Aziraphale giggled in a way that Crowley couldn’t help but find charming. “This is only my Earthly Form. Sort of like how you can be a man-shaped thing, or a snake-shaped thing. I too have another form I wear when I’m at the Head Office, or when the job requires a bit of extra convincing.”

“What does it look like?” Crowley asked, suddenly curious.

“Oh, it’s quite impressive. I’m basically a ball of wings and eyes, approximately ten feet tall.” Aziraphale hiccuped gently before taking another gulp of wine. 

“Well...that’s something I’d like to see some day,” Crowley remarked, and meant it. It’d probably be an impressive sight. A ten foot tall Aziraphale, covered in wings and eyeballs. 

“Maybe you shall…see it...some day,” There was a subtle tone to Aziraphale’s voice. Was that...flirtation?

“I should be going,” Crowley said, getting clumsily to his feet and looking about for the exit. Things had gotten a little too friendly all of a sudden.

“Oh, well...yes. It has gotten quite late. I think I’ll sober up.” Aziraphale concentrated for a long moment and shuddered as several glasses of wine fled his system and found their way back into a series of jugs behind the counter. When he next glanced up, he was clear eyed and steady. Any hint of the subtle flirtatious tone he’d employed moments ago was gone, and now he looked a bit sheepish. 

“Yeah, me too” Crowley replied and did his own sobering up. The two of them walked back out onto the street. “Well, I’ll see you around,” Crowley said, as casually as he could manage. 

“Yes. I’ll be seeing you,” Aziraphale replied, looking down at his hands. “I had a good time Crowley.” 

“Yeah. It wasn’t bad,” Crowley said, feeling unbearably awkward, and, instead of saying something else, something possibly humiliating, he simply turned and walked away. By the time he looked back, Aziraphale was gone, swallowed up by the press of humans darting about on the street outside Patronias’ Place.

  
  


____________________________________

It was 527 AD and Crowley watched as Aziraphale, decked out in a full complement of plate armor, stormed away from him across the misty moors. This particular meeting had not gone well at all. Aziraphale it seemed, was not as morally flexible as Crowley had been led to believe. Yes, the angel revelled in pleasures of the flesh. Eating sumptuous foods and taking hot baths and drinking like a fish, but he apparently drew the line at _lying_. So, sloth and gluttony were just fine, but a few white lies so that they could stop working so hard at cancelling each other out? That was unthinkable apparently. 

Crowley huffed irritably and creaked his way back to his tent. He hadn’t meant to anger Aziraphale. How was he to know that the angel would suddenly grow a conscience? The principality regularly met with Crowley over drinks and dinner for a friendly chat. And they’d both acknowledged that they were slaving away in damp places for no reason at all, and yet...and yet lying to the Head Office was simply a step too far for Aziraphale. 

Crowley on the other hand was very comfortable with dishonesty. He lied to Beelzebub on a regular basis, and he lied to humans all the time. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been honest with one of them. They were extremely gullible. And so was Aziraphale for that matter. He was gullible and sweet and kind and...Crowley clenched his teeth as a wave of shame broke through him at the very recent memory of Aziraphale’s horrified face and angry rejection of The Arrangement (as Crowley had been calling it in his head). 

He hadn’t meant to drive the silly creature away completely. He’d only been looking for ways to make their millennia long assignment go more smoothly. Maybe find them a way to let loose a bit more and spend more time together in the pursuit of rest and relaxation. 

_Spend more time together_ . The thought ghosted through Crowley’s mind, leaving a trail of embarrassed shivers in its wake. He _shouldn’t_ want to see the angel more often. Aziraphale was dull wasn’t he? Dull and gullible and silly. Crowley only wanted to spend time with him in the first place because he was the only other person on the entire planet that understood what it was like to live this long and be this omniscient. It got old, developing friendships with humans, only to watch them die an eye blink later. They were so frail and unstable and hopelessly naive. 

And to be fair, Aziraphale wasn’t exactly _dull_. He could be quite entertaining when he’d gotten a few pints into him. And he wasn’t really silly. Not all the time anyway. Yes, he had a habit of looking at the world with relentlessly rose tinted glasses, and he could be irritating with his unending positivity. He was the type of optimist that made Crowley want to do bad things just to prove that there was a flaw in Aziraphale’s sunny outlook. But he didn’t. He didn’t do bad things at all around Aziraphale. Not really. And the angel’s optimism wasn’t that bad either. It was world’s better than the nasty attitudes of other demons like Hastur or Liger, who seemed Hell bent on being miserable all the time. 

And now, just as Crowley was realizing that maybe he wouldn’t mind spending some more time in the angel’s company, he’d gone and suggested something abhorrent. No, he couldn’t be blamed for assuming that Aziraphale would want to play along with his plan. How could he know where the angel’s boundaries lay until he stepped on them? But..still… he should apologize and try to make nice. It wouldn’t do to push the angel away when his sole purpose on earth was to pump him for information would it? 

He spent a few minutes in careful contemplation on the best way to make amends, and settled (predictably) on food. He’d bring the angel a treat, visit him in his tent with a gift of something tasty and a bottle of wine and suggest that they have a snack and a chat. 

He miracled up a basket of bread rolls and a small pot of chilled butter along with a nice white wine and (after changing out of his armour), marched his way back across the moors to where Aziraphale had set up camp. 

When he arrived, he cleared his throat outside the angel’s tent flap. “Aziraphale?” He asked, putting on his most contrite tone. 

“Go away!” came a sullen voice from inside the tent.

“Come on angel. Don’t be like that.”

“I have no wish to talk to you right now Crowley. So if you would be so kind as to leave, I’d greatly appreciate it.” 

Even when telling someone off, the angel was extremely polite. Crowley couldn’t help a small, fond smile from making its way across his face before he suffocated it with a dedicated frown. “Angel!” He barked. “You’re being ridiculous! Look, I promise not to bring up the subject again. I misspoke. I’m a _demon_. It’s in my nature to say outrageous things. And see here, if you don’t let me in, you’ll never find out what tasty treats I’ve brought you.” 

There was a pause, then a shuffling noise from inside the tent before the flap lifted itself to reveal a pair of large, sea colored eyes that peered out at Crowley curiously. “Treats?” Aziraphale asked, looking very amenable to company all of a sudden. “You brought me treats?” 

Crowley felt a triumphant burst of warmth in his chest. He was a master of subtle temptations, and Aziraphale apparently, was no match for his wiles. “I did,” he replied, before lifting up the cloth that covered the wicker basket he carried to reveal the still-steaming bread rolls and pot of butter and the chilled bottle of white wine. “Though you might fancy some wine and a chat?” 

“Well, if you went through the trouble of bringing wine and food, I’d be remiss if I didn’t join you…” Aziraphale held the tent flap open and Crowley ducked inside. The angel had a nice set up inside his tent. There was a cheery fire in a stone pit, the smoke of which was let out by a hole in the canvas roof of the tent, and he had a cot covered with furs and woolen blankets. The place smelled like vanilla. _How exactly had he managed that?_

Soon, they were both sitting on opposite ends of Aziraphale’s (very comfortable) cot, wooden cups of wine in hand and Aziraphale was busily working his way through the first of several rolls slathered in butter. 

“So, what’s new with you?” Crowley asked, trying to sound casual. Despite how pleasant he found Aziraphale’s company, he still needed to dig for information. Something to keep Beelzebub happy. 

_Since when did you start finding angel’s company pleasant?_ The question floated up inside his mind and he shoved it roughly to the side. 

“It’s funny you should ask, Crowley,” Aziraphale said around a bite of buttered roll. “There’s been quite a lot of whispers upstairs about some sort of very large event, due to happen a couple of millennia from now.”

“Really? What sort of event?” Crowley’s curiosity was instantly piqued, but he kept cool, his gaze shielded by yet another in a long pair of tinted glasses. Humans were starting to get uncomfortable with his yellow snake eyes and reaching for crucifixes and pitchforks a bit too often for his comfort.

“Some sort of ultimate reckoning,” Aziraphale said.“I’ve heard tell that perhaps another Great War is in the works.” His voice had taken on a conspiratorial tone, tinged with worry.

“Huh...Really?” Crowley felt his stomach flip flop uncomfortably. He didn’t have any memories of the first Great War, but the other demons in Hell routinely recounted lots of horrible, bloody tales of death and destruction. They made sure Crowley knew it had been very bad and who _exactly_ was to blame for it.

“Yes, I know. It’s rather concerning isn’t it? I did not enjoy the first one, though truth be told, I was in training as a principality and was not required to serve on the front lines. Still, lots of angels and demons died, and I don’t relish the idea of it happening a second time.”

This was juicy gossip indeed. Crowley would have been pleased to have something to report to Duke Beelzebub if he weren’t so unsettled by the contents of what Aziraphale was implying. Heaven and Hell? Brewing up another Great War? How could that possibly bode well for either he or Aziraphale? All they wanted to do was drift about on earth, enjoying the scenery, the food and the wine, and, he supposed, each other’s company. He _did_ enjoy the angel’s company didn’t he? He’d gotten so used to thinking of the angel as a gullible idiot or as “the enemy” that it was a surprise for him to realize that he actually looked forward to seeing the daft creature. Yes, he decided. Aziraphale was fun to hang about with. If only for the looks on his face when Crowley made off colour jokes. 

“So, did you find out anything else about this possible second Great War?” He asked. “Any idea when it’s supposed to come about? Or What we’ll be expected to do? I for one am a lover not a fighter. I can’t imagine picking up a sword and trying to stab some poor bugger with it.”

“No, that doesn’t sound appealing to me either,” Aziraphale ate faster when he was anxious apparently, because the bread rolls and butter were disappearing at an alarming rate. “As for _when_ , I heard Sandalphon say twenty nineteen.”

Crowley nodded absently and took a long swallow of wine. “I’ll ask my people and see what they say,” he mumbled into his cup. 

“You aren’t telling them about our little...meetings are you?” Aziraphale asked apprehensively and Crowley felt a stab of discomfort lance through his belly.

“No!” he lied immediately. “Of course not. I’d be in a lot of trouble if they knew I’d been...chatting with an angel.” He cleared his throat and sought desperately for a change of subject. “About earlier,” he began. He found that reminding someone of a time when they were angry with you effectively stopped them from following a certain track of inquiry and bumped them onto a new one. Yes, both subjects were sore ones, but one was sorer than the other, and therefore preferable. 

“Yes, about earlier,” Aziraphale said, licking his fingers and taking a sip of his wine. “I can’t believe you would suggest such-”

“You can calm down Aziraphale. I don’t intend to push the matter. Don’t even know why I brought it up in the first place. You’re such a goody two-shoes that you’d never agree to something so daring.”

I am _not_ a goody-two-shoes!” Exclaimed the world’s biggest goody-two-shoes with an indignant huff. “I simply have to do what I’m told!”

“Do what you’re told...you mean like...hanging around with a demon? Like, eating all the pastries you can get your hands on? Do what you’re told like drinking endless bottles of-”

“Alright fine,” Aziraphale cut in before Crowley could list any more of his sins. “Sometimes I _do_ indulge a bit, but it would be a pity not to, what with all the delights and wonders earth has to offer.”

“I’m a ‘delight’ and a ‘wonder’ now am I?” This was good, Aziraphale was effectively distracted from the subject of Crowley’s spying on him.

“Come now Crowley. You’re...well...you’re the only chap I know down here that understands...immortal stuff aren’t you? Without sharing a meal with you every once in a while, I’d be forced to befriend endless numbers of humans who would only die out every fifty, sixty years or so.”

“You have a point,” Crowley said, nodding. “I’ve tried being friends with humans. It’s a real drag when you have to replace them more than once a century. So, can we let bygones be bygones? I promise not to bring up my little Arrangement again if it bothers you so much.”

“Yes Crowley. Fine. And thank you for the lovely rolls and the butter and the wine. They’ve all been quite tasty.”

“I can see that,” Crowley eyed the now empty basket with a raised eyebrow and Aziraphale shot him a look. 

“Where are you off to next?” The angel asked, sounding genuinely curious. 

“Off to tempt a Bishop into succumbing to temptations of the flesh with a scullery maid. You?”

“I’m to bless a poor miller’s son near Bath. He helped save a large number of children from a fire and I’m to appear to him in a beam of light and heal his burns.” 

“Oh,” after hearing Aziraphale’s plans, Crowley’s seemed more than a little petty and small minded. But, he was a demon after all, and the humans wouldn’t very well tempt themselves. “Well, good luck with that angel,” he got up off the cot and stretched luxuriously. “I’d better be going.”

“So soon?” Aziraphale’s soft voice had Crowley halting mid stretch. He looked down at the angel only to see those enormous, blue-gray-green eyes gazing up at him. His breath caught in his chest for a moment. _What a manipulative bastard_ , he thought. _He knows what a sucker I am for puppy dog eyes._

“S’pose I could hang around and help finish up the wine,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks go hot, even though it was far too chilly and damp for him to feel this flushed. “Can’t let you drink it all.”

He sat back down on the cot and they drank and talked together for a while longer, and by the time Crowley left Aziraphale’s tent (in the early morning hours of the next day), he found he didn’t feel the chillness or dampness at all anymore. 

  
  


_______________________________________

  
  


“What’s this I hear about a second Great war?” Crowley felt that a direct approach was best. At least that’s what usually worked when talking to Beelzebub. 

“Oh that,” Beelzebub replied, looking cooly at him from under their shaggy black fringe. 

“So...what exactly is it then? A second War?”

“It’s actually the war to end all wars. It’s the Apocalypse. Armageddon. You know. The end of days,” Beelzebub sighed as if they were having to explain something very simple to someone very stupid. 

“You mean...the destruction of the earth?” Crowley felt a ball of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach. “All the humans and...all the stuff...just going...poof? That’s it?”

“Of course,” Beelzebub said, sounding bored. “Don’t tell me you’re going to get dramatic about it.”

“Dramatic!!!? When have I _ever_ been known to get _dramatic_ about anything??!!”

“Calm down Crowley. It’s no use making a scene. The whole end of days thing was prearranged from the beginning. Whatserface up there...She didn’t like how some of the angels didn’t bow and scrape whenever She entered a room, and so She threw some of them out. Yourself included. And now, Mr. L wants to even the score. Whatsername basically said ‘you’re on mister!’ and here we are.”

“So, She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and Mr. L are basically having a show down and they’re destroying earth in the process?” Crowley’s mouth had gone dry and his palms had gone damp. “Seems pretty childish to me.”

“Better not let Mr. L hear you say that,” Beelzebub warned him with a flinty glare from within the ruined mess that was their face. “You’re already in trouble with _one_ supreme being.” 

“Fine, whatever.” It was clear to Crowley that he wasn’t going to get any sympathy, or any more specific information about the Apocalypse from Beelzebub, so he let the subject drop for the time being. 

“Any news from the angel? What’s he up to?” They asked.

“Well, when last we met, he was spreading peace and tranquility around the moors outside Wessex. Didn’t look like he was doing anything all that interesting.”

“He does seem rather dull, doesn’t he? Has he even given you _any_ good intel since you started talking to him? Maybe it would be best if you avoided him from here on out.”

“Oh! Um! No Duke Beelzebub, he’s actually quite the fascinating character. Always sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. He told me all about how Heaven is planning something in regards to the Armageddon that will probably take lots of digging for me to weasel out of him.” Crowley could not explain the stab of panic he felt when Beelzebub had suggested that he stop meeting with Airaphale. He assumed it was because life topside was less interesting without the prospect of running into the silly angel now and again. 

“Alright then, if he’s so fascinating and you think you can find out some good tidbits, by all means, keep chatting him up. Just don’t let him know that’s what you’re doing. And for Satan’s sake, don’t develop any _feelings_ for him.”

Crowley was momentarily speechless, but he recovered swiftly. “Feelings?” He asked, staring at Beelzebub with wide eyes. 

“Yes...don’t go and get soft on him. He _is_ your enemy yes, but you two are spending a lot of time together up there. It would be only natural for you to develop some sort of fondness for him. Happens all the time.” 

“Soft…” Crowley’s thoughts went immediately to all the things about Aziraphale that looked soft. His belly. His curly blond hair. The look in his eyes when he asked Crowley to stay for just one more glass of wine. He shook his head to banish such un-demonic musings. “Of course not! What a disgusting idea! Me? Develop _soft feelings_ for an angel? You know how much I hate those stupid, featherbrained, silly-”

“Yeah yeah, I know you hate angels. Just thought I’d warn you. They can get under your skin. I once nearly had a tea date with the Archangel Gabriel simply because we started talking a bit extra during our bicentennial check in calls. The bastard nearly had me laughing at his jokes. They’re sneaky like that, angels. Gotta stay on your guard, because as soon as you show them the smallest iota of weakness... _Bam!_ They smite you!”

Crowley jerked back a little at Beelzebub’s shout. “No worries boss,” he was quick to reassure them. “I can barely tolerate the sod as it is. No soft feelings here. No Siree!”

“Good,” remarked Beelzebub. “Now get back up there and dig up some dirt.”

_________________________________________

Crowley could not imagine why Aziraphale would want to meet at the theater of all places. Why couldn’t they just go to a pub or a bakery or a stroll in the park like they usually did? Crowley was deeply suspicious of things that were meant to culture a person. Plays and concerts and books and such. He preferred to get his education from the streets. To walk amongst the people (and tempt them to do daft things for his amusement). Standing around watching people pretend to be people they were not while telling some dull story up on a stage was not his cup of tea. But, Aziraphale said there would be scads of people and that he and Crowley would blend into the crowd. That at least was reassuring. 

Not that Hell was watching. That was Crowley’s job. To keep an eye on Aziraphale and report back. For all he knew, Aziraphale had been tasked with doing the same thing to him. He’d never said as much of course, and for some odd reason, Crowley trusted Aziraphale far more than he should, and the angel quite obviously trusted Crowley as well, (which he definitely should _not_ ). 

It was this dichotomy, the angel trusting Crowley while Crowley simultaneously reported on the angel that first had Crowley lying to Beelzebub during his check in meetings. Some time after they’d spent the evening drinking together in Aziraphale’s tent in 527, Crowley had made the decision that he wasn’t going to tell Beelzebub anything true about Aziraphale anymore if he could help it. Instead, he made up interesting sounding lies that would be just controversial enough to pique Beelzebub’s interest, but not telling enough to actually get Aziraphale in trouble. 

And it worked! Beelzebub never seemed to be any wiser. And this in turn allowed Crowley to feel less like a horrible person (demon) for betraying Aziraphale. 

He wasn’t sure when he’d taken the angel’s safety and happiness to heart this way. Perhaps it had happened slowly, the result of spending a lot of time with the angel over the millennia. One often developed a liking for one’s coworkers, didn't one? Especially if one saw them regularly over the course of the entirety of human history. 

It was just that Aziraphale was so very _good_ . He was far more good than Crowley was evil. Crowley was trash at being evil. And he wasn’t all that great at being good either. He sort of hovered somewhere around annoyingly troublesome. But Aziraphale? He spent all day every day helping people and being an all around sweet chap. Not that Crowley _admired_ him for this. The angel was a complete sucker. A total pushover. Always had been. All any human had to do was ask for help and he’d leap to their aid. It was a wonder he hadn’t been stabbed yet. 

Aziraphale’s only real flaws (other than his incessant cheerful optimism which frankly drove Crawley half up the wall), was his penchant for eating cake and his obsession with the acquisition of books. He’d amassed piles and piles and piles of books from all periods of human literary history. Books on poetry and geography and science and horticulture. Books of medicine. Adventure tales. Even bawdy romance novels were not beneath the angel’s notice, (and he blushed a lovely pink color whenever Crowley mentioned this fact.)

But so what if he loved to eat and loved to read? These were perfectly understandable past times. It gave him depth and character, which was a thing the other angels (the ones Crowley had had the displeasure of running into now and again) lacked. They had no personalities whatsoever, with their plain white robes and gold patches on their skin. How pretentious. 

On a few occasions, one or two of them had shown up to have a quick chat with Aziraphale, (which meant Crowley had needed to dive behind a bush or or snap himself quickly into an alternate dimension to avoid detection). And they were such bloody stuffed shirts that Crowley felt pity for the angel having to deal with them.

Aziraphale on the other hand was packed with personality. He was persnickety at times yes, and prone to worry, but overall, he had turned out to be a fascinating conversationalist as well as being in possession of a surprisingly wicked sense of humor. 

After a few centuries, Aziraphale had even agreed to take part in Crowley’s Arrangement. They’d swap jobs now and then, doing double duty with blessings and temptations to save the time and inconvenience of both of them going all the way to Madrid or Rome, Dublin or Istanbul. It made things far easier and more convenient for them both, and luckily, Aziraphale had the brains to realize this. 

They’d met in the not-at-all crowded Globe Theater and had arranged for Aziraphale (due to a cleverly rigged coin toss on Crowley’s part) to head to Edinburgh to tempt a clan leader into stealing some cattle. Afterwards, Aziraphale had shyly invited Crowley to have a drink in a pub a few blocks away from The Globe, and Crowley had pretended to be busy, then had pretended to move some things around in his calendar in order to make himself available. On the inside though? He was extremely pleased to have been asked out for drinks. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale in a few decades and he’d missed the silly chap’s light hearted manner and his clever stories. He couldn’t believe there’d been a time when he’d seen Aziraphale as dull or ordinary. The angel was anything but. 

He knew he’d gone and done the thing that Beelzebub warned him about. He was a bit soft on Aziraphale. But, to be fair, he’d given the angel ample opportunity to smite him, and no smitings had been forthcoming. Not that he’d expected any.

Still, he pretended these gooey feelings of camaraderie and respect did not exist. Not overtly anyway. He mocked Aziraphale and poked him and pushed his buttons, just for the extreme pleasure of watching him turn from the shade of cream colored silk to a deep pink blush as he grew flustered and indignant. 

Aziraphale for his part was not without sass. He would aim very clever zingers in Crowley’s direction to take him down a peg when Crowley grew too smug. This should have irritated Crowley, but instead, it did the opposite. It made him secretly proud of Aziraphale for having developed a bit of a bite over the centuries. He’d been wrong to think of the angel as a helpless bumpkin, for Aziraphale was just as worldly and streetsmart as Crowley, he was simply more polite about it. Where Crowley was apt to yell “Oi! Shove off!” when humans got pushy or aggressive with him, Aziraphale would take a different tack. “Pardon me sir, but perhaps you could cease trying to steal my purse? I’d gladly give you some money if that’s what you require, but the attempt to pickpocket me is laughably obvious and beneath both of us don’t you think?”

Crowley was a scoundrel and Aziraphale was a gentleman. And those roles suited them both very well. 

The pub was crowded tonight, and it took them a minute or two to find a free table and a pair of stools to sit down with their brimming pints of ale. 

“It’s far too noisy in here,” Aziraphale tutted, his lower lip forming what Crowley had learned to appreciate as possibly the world’s cutest pout. The angel snapped his fingers and the noise level in the room sank to a murmur. “There,” he remarked with satisfaction. “That’s much better.” 

“Still using miracles for only the most pressing of necessities I see,” Crowley raised an eyebrow and shot Aziraphale an arch look over his shades. 

“Oh please Crowley. Just last century I saw you use a demonic miracle to make your whiskey glass refill itself and the bottle was within arms reach. You’re one to talk.” His voice though was indulgent and coy, without a hint of anger. 

Crowley chuckled and shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m a demon. They don’t keep track like your lot do.” 

“Well, _my lot_ haven’t been checking in on me all that often, so I daresay it’s a moot point.”

“Lost interest have they?”

“Yes,” replied Aziraphale plainly. “They’ve never had much interest in me in the first place if I’m honest. They have so much paperwork to do up there, who has time to worry about the earthly habits of one silly old principality?”

“My people do a lot of paperwork as well,” Crowley tried the ale, grimaced, then snapped his fingers to turn it into better ale. “I suppose we should be grateful that they aren’t breathing down our necks all the time.”

“You can say that again,” Aziraphale agreed. 

“I suppose we should be grateful that they aren’t-”

“Crowley, that was funny the first six hundred times. It has since worn out its welcome.” Aziraphale shot him a mock-severe look over the rim of his ale mug and Crowley felt his chest go warm. 

“I hope you have a good time in Edinburgh,” he said to cover for the strange glowing feeling behind his sternum he usually got when poking fun at Aziraphale. “I hear they do an excellent haggis up there.” 

Aziraphale shivered. “Haggis. Was that your doing?”

“Nah, but I take credit for lots of things I haven’t done during meetings with the head office. You should hear what I tell them about you...”

The moment the words slipped past his lips he knew he’d made a grave mistake. Aziraphale’s face, which, two seconds ago had been displaying an expression of friendly interest, that little half smile with the raised eyebrow thing he did when they were engaged in pleasant chitchat, had gone blank. Blank and pale. The silence stretched out for a moment while Crowley’s brain ran hither and yon, frantically looking for a way to excuse what he’d just said.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was very soft, barely heard, even above the muted clamor of the pub goers around them.

“Angel,” Crowley replied, putting his hands up in a defensive position. “It’s not what you think angel. I never tell them anything useful. I mean, I _was_ actually spying on you at one point yes, but that was _ages ago._ I haven’t said anything real in a long time.”

“You were _spying_ on me?” Aziraphale’s hands had tightened around his ale mug, knuckles going white against pink flushed fingers. His face had gone pink as well, and his large eyes were full of some unreadable emotion that did not look at all positive. 

“Not exactly. Well, yes. Yes, that _is_ exactly what I was doing. But I only did it for a few centuries. And then I got to know you and-”

“You spied on me for _a few centuries_??” The angel stood up and put his hands on his hips and glared down at where Crowley was still sitting, cowering at the small wooden table. Aziraphale’s eyes were stormy and glinting like dark jewels in the torchlight of a nearby wall sconce. His cheeks were still painted with a furious blush and his soft mouth was set in a grim line.

_Dear Satan, he’s beautiful_ . Crowley couldn’t help the thought from bubbling up past the fear and guilt he was consumed with at the moment. He shoved it down again though. _Not the best time for it brain,_ he scolded himself silently as he struggled to find some way to excuse what he’d said and done. “Yes. And it was more like a few millennia... That’s sort of why they sent me up here in the first place. To spy on...on the opposition. Cuz that’s what you are aren’t you? My enemy? How was I to know that we’d become...that we’d actually grow to…”

“Shut up Crowley!” Aziraphale was angry, and Crowley had ever seen him angry before. Not like this. Yes, the angel got a bit snappish when a baker ran out of his favorite sort of scone, but this was beyond snappish. This was full blown rage. “I am leaving now,” he said in a voice that was dangerously soft and intent. “I will _not_ be going to Edinburgh. You can do your _own_ temptations. I don’t wish to see you again, do you hear me? You’re a liar and a cheat and I..I hate you!”

And with that, he turned and marched out of the pub. Crowley was left sitting at the table by himself, mouth still gaping in dismay as the noise of the pub goers swelled back to its original cacophony in the absence of the angel’s miracle. 

Crowley sat there, staring at the angel’s unfinished mug of ale for a moment as his brain struggled to process what his mouth had just done. He supposed that he’d slipped up because he’d been lying about Aziraphale to Head Office for so long now that he’d forgotten that he’d never actually told Aziraphale about the spying thing in the first place. He could have sworn he’d explained the situation at some point hadn’t he? Or perhaps, and this was far more likely, he had only _imagined_ that he’d explained the situation to Aziraphale. Crowley did that sometimes. He’d imagine doing things, and if he pictured them inside his head long enough, he could convince himself that they’d actually happened. It was part of what made him so believable when he told Beelzebub things like that he’d started the bubonic plague, or invented the recipe for fruitcake.

Only this time, though he’d imagined coming clean to Aziraphale countless times, he hadn’t actually done it. Instead he’d royally stuck his foot in his mouth. And now the angel didn’t want to see him again. The mere thought of this made cold dread lance through Crowley’s gut. He’d gotten used to the silly git hadn’t he? He’d grown to look forward to seeing the angel’s sunny face and glowing smile, and without that, without their little meetings and the Arrangement to take up his time? What would he do with himself? He’d be up here all alone. 

It seemed like an appropriate time to get very drunk, and so Crowley drank his own ale, then Aziraphale’s, then ordered more. By the time the sun had risen, he was barely able to walk back to his small suite of rented rooms a few streets away. A couple of enterprising thieves tried to mug him, but then ran away screaming when their clothing caught on fire. 

Crowley dragged himself up the stairs to his second floor suite and immediately fell into bed and into a fitful sleep where he dreamed of Aziraphale’s angry, storm colored eyes. 

  
  


______________________________________  
  


They did not meet again until almost two centuries later. Crowley spotted Aziraphale now and then, saw his glow flickering at the edges of a crowded market or caught sight of him riding by in a handsomely appointed carriage with a hat with feathers in. Always Crowley’s heart would give a little leap inside his chest at the sight of the angel, and then his gut would twist with regret when he remembered Aziraphale’s last words to him. 

_I don’t wish to see you again, do you hear me? You’re a liar and a cheat and I..I hate you!_

Each time, he’d squashed the urge to go try and speak to Aziraphale, for fear the angel would yell at him, or worse, simply turn away without speaking to him at all, and that would hurt even more than the yelling. 

Every day Crowley regretted not telling Aziraphale sooner that he’d been spying on him for Downstairs. Every day he thought about Aziraphale and remembered the good times they’d had over the millennia. How Aziraphale’s laugh and sunny smile and golden curls could make even the most miserable day better. He missed the angel acutely. 

Then, one day in 1793 he felt a tugging sensation in the middle of his chest and an apprehensive tingle creep across his scalp. The feeling was a queer one, one he did not remember experiencing before, and so he’d closed his eyes, snapped his fingers and transported himself in the direction of the pull that drew him so strongly, as if a string had been attached to his heart and the other end was dragging him toward some unknown and mysterious situation. 

Imagine his surprise when he ended up in a musty cell in the bowels of the Bastille. Imagine his further surprise when he was confronted with the sight of Aziraphale, decked out in cream coloured silk and ivory lace, and apparently chained to the wall. The angel stood with his back to Crowley, complaining to himself about humans being violent animals. Crowley, quickly mastering his surprise at being suddenly transported to a prison cell and into the company of a creature he thought about far too often for propriety’s sake, had made a glib remark about guillotines in general. 

Aziraphale whirled around when he heard the demon’s voice. “Crowely!” He exclaimed in a tone he usually reserved for things like cake and pastries or a new first edition, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel a broad smile creep across his face in response. 

Aziraphale had immediately tried to temper his joy upon seeing Crowley by playing it casual, giving him a sly once over and muttering “Oh good lord,” while turning a bit pink, but at this point, it was too late. Crowley knew then that the angel had missed him too.

What followed was what could only be called history’s most awkward rescue mission. Aziraphale made casual comments about only being here because he’d had a yen for crepes. Crowley insisted that Aziraphale not thank him in case Head Office found out. Aziraphale invited him to lunch. And just like that, things had returned to normal. Well, mostly to normal. Crowley knew he wasn’t going to get out of this without bringing up what he’d done, and he knew that Aziraphale, always the gentleman, was giving him the opportunity to do it on his own.

And that was why, once they’d been settled at a table in Le Grand Véfour and Aziraphale was enthusiastically working his way through a plate of chocolate crepes, drizzled in a reduction of drambuie and raspberry that Crowley finally found the nerve to bring the subject up.

“About the other century,” he began hesitantly, trying not to be too distracted by the soft pull of Aziraphale’s lips against the tines of his fork while he ate. “I know I owe you a big apology. The crepes are on me by the way. I insist.”

“Thank you Crowley,” Aziraphale said with a gracious little nod and a sly look. A look that said _I know you have more you need to say to me, so get talking._

“Thing is,” Crowley said. “I couldn’t very well tell you that I was spying on you right at the beginning now could I? We didn’t know each other at all. What kind of spy would I be if I told the person I was spying on that I was spying on them inside of ten minutes.”

“Yes Crowley, but you weren’t spying on me for _ten minutes_ were you?” Aziraphale reminded him while executing that little pout that was sometimes ridiculously charming, but that currently made Crowley want to shove him into a nearby lake. 

“No, you’re right. I was spying on you up until the moors outside of Wessex. I think it was then that I realized that we weren’t really enemies. More… coworkers? Acquaintances?” He didn’t dare use the ‘F word’, and Aziraphale didn’t volunteer it either. It was sort of the elephant in every room they both inhabited. 

“So, what changed? What made you realize that you were being a horrid person and made you decide to stop betraying me?” Aziraphale had a very slanted and unflattering way of putting things sometimes. 

“I don’t know!” Crowley wailed, picking up his wine glass and taking a large gulp to bolster his courage. “I swear angel. I guess I just realized that we had a good time whenever we met up, and that you weren’t a bad sort of chap, and… I don’t know, it started feeling wrong to report on the stuff you told me.”

“Ohhh. You developed a conscience did you?”

“You’re not making this any easier angel.” Crowley glared at Aziraphale over the top of his shades, and Aziraphale kept eating crepes and glared right back. “Look,” Crowley said. “I’m sorry. I haven’t told the truth about you in check in meetings since roughly 530 AD. I promise never to do it again. You can trust me.”

“Can I?” Aziraphale raised a light blond eyebrow at Crowley. _Hells Bells_ , he was even adorable when he was being angry and condescending. The angel was a menace. 

“Yes, you can,” Crowley stated, pouring all the earnestness he possessed into those three words. Aziraphale looked at him with narrowed eyes for a moment longer, then he nodded and smiled. 

  
“Good,” he said. “Would you like a bite of these crepes? They’re heavenly.” His disapproval and anger had evaporated completely as if it had never been there. 

Crowley made a face at Aziraphale’s choice of descriptive words. “No thanks angel. You eat up. Order more if you want.” If buying Aziraphale desserts was a sure fire way to get back in his good graces, well, Crowley would buy him piles of them.

The evening progressed very pleasantly from there. Aziraphale _did_ order another plate of crepes. This time pear and honey ones, and they both drank probably more than their fair share of wine. Crowley was happy in a way he wasn’t certain he’d ever been before. The happiness lived in this warm, sparking place in the center of his chest, and it curled tingling fingers up to tease at the corners of his eyes when something Aziraphale said made him laugh. And those feelings, those warm, fuzzy feelings inside, grew two-fold every time _he_ said something that made the angel laugh. 

_Is this what it feels like to have a friend?_ He wondered. He’d never had a friend before. Demons didn’t have friends. They had other demons who maybe wouldn’t kill them the minute they turned their backs, but that wasn’t the same as friendship. He may have had friends before the Fall, but since he hadn’t been allowed to remember anything from his time Up There, the feeling of it was lost on him. 

Aziraphale giggled as he recounted a bawdy story from the early eighteenth century about a mix up with a duchess’ wig and a small lap dog, and his eyes sparkled like dark water in the yellow light of the candle that sat between them on the table. Crowley felt his heart flip flop inside his chest and for a brief moment, he forgot to breathe. It was a thing that happened now and then. Breathing was a surprisingly hard habit to acquire if you didn’t actually need to do it to live. Still, it made the humans nervous when they noticed that you didn’t do it consistently, and now, Crowley realized that he hadn’t breathed in probably five minutes. He quickly remedied that with a deep sigh, put his chin on his hand and basked in the glow coming at him from the happy angel across the table. 

The evening ended far too quickly and they parted ways with shy smiles and promises to meet up again soon, before Crowley went his way to his latest set of rented rooms in London with a snap of his fingers. The place inside him that had felt empty and cold when he thought Aziraphale would never speak to him again was now warm and gooey, as if he _had_ eaten some of Aziraphale’s crepes and they had settled pleasantly somewhere behind his collarbone. 

__________________________________________________

  
  


“I’m not certain this little project should continue Crowley,” Beelzebub peered at Crowley suspiciously. “I haven’t heard anything new from you in a while about the angel.”

Crowley swallowed thickly and began the panicky, internal beginning stages of an elaborate lie to keep Beelzebub interested in Aziraphale as a source of information, while not giving away any actual information that wasn’t a complete lie. Unfortunately, this took time and Beelzebub easily beat him to the punch.

“I don’t want to hear anything more about how he healed the lepers or how he reduced prices to local theatrical productions so that poor people could attend them. He’s an angel. All of that is just part of his job. I need _inside information_ on what they're planning to do in the upcoming War, and how we can obliterate those wank wings once and for all. Do you have any information about _that_?”

“Um...no. Not as such,” Crowley mumbled hopelessly, silently cursing his brain for running out of lies at such an inopportune occasion. 

“Well then, I think it’s about time you moved on. You can stay up there, but you need to drop the angel like a hot potato and find something else useful to do with your time. Increase temptations by a good 40%. Make it so I don’t regret letting you hang around topside when you could be doing more valuable work here, in the torture chambers.” (Contrary to popular belief, ‘ _the torture chambers_ ’ weren’t actually places where damned souls were tortured. They were in fact the massive superstructure of office cubicles where the denizens of Hell did their endless paperwork. The actual places where souls were tortured were simply called ‘the mailroom’). 

“And just in case I’m not making myself clear,” Beelzebub stepped closer, and Crowley couldn’t help but reel back a bit at the smell of rot that preceded their advance. “When I say ‘drop the angel’, I mean it. If I catch you hanging around chatting with him, maybe because you’re bored, or because you actually _like_ the daft sod, you will suffer for it. Is that understood?” There was a dangerous, flinty glimmer in their eyes as they glared at Crowley in a very significant manner. 

“Understood boss,” Crowley said, nodding. He knew the Duke of Hell could inflict a lot of pain and misery, could possibly even permanently discorporate him for the crime of consorting with the enemy without permission. He’d only been allowed to spend this much time with Aziraphale as it was because he’d constructed elaborate falsehoods about the angel’s motives and the things Aziraphale told him. Which in itself was twice as bad as saying that he hadn’t learned much of import, because it misdirected a whole branch of the Infernal Bureau of Investigations (the IBI), and wasted scads of departmental resources. 

What was even worse, he’d heard Aziraphale mention to him casually, (but never without a tremor tip toeing through his voice), that Upstairs had a similar fate in store for him if he were caught spending enjoyable dinner dates with a demon. Unlike Crowley, he’d never been tasked with spying on the opposition. His only job was to hang around on earth and make sure the humans were doing well and not dying off in irreplaceable numbers. He’d been alerted to the fact that there would be a demon “down there” floating around, but Aziraphale’s instructions had been to keep an eye from a distance, and then, no one had followed up. His bosses didn’t know he’d been consorting with Crowley, and if they found out….well, it was best for Crowley if he didn’t think too long on what would happen to Aziraphale if the other angels discovered their association.

He excused himself from Beelzebub’s company with a deep bow and then fled. He went Topside immediately, because he couldn’t bear to stay in Hell for longer than was absolutely necessary. The dampness and the mold, the screams and wails from the torture chambers...it was too much. His brain, still feeling horrid at not coming up with a lie to gain him more time to officially keep hanging around with Azirapahle, began to plot its way toward some form of solution for the tough spot they both found themselves in. 

It only took him a few minutes to come up with an option that would allow him to sleep better at night. _Holy Water_ . It was so obvious. He needed to get his hands on some Holy Water and _fast_. The stuff was deadly to demons, so if Beelzebub or Hastur or Ligur found out about Crowley’s highly illegal connection to Azirapahle, he’d need a weapon with which to defend himself and the angel. A splash of Holy Water, and most demons melted faster than ice cream in August. It was a gruesome fate, but the threat of it was highly compelling. It would serve to either 1. Keep the demons from coming after him, or failing that, 2. Melt their faces off should they feel inclined to try. 

But where would he procure the stuff? And how? He couldn’t risk touching it himself, for one slip up was enough to end his immortal existence in a highly unpleasant and _very messy_ fashion. 

_Aziraphale_ . Crowley’s thoughts flew to the angel. He was the best chance Crowley had to obtain some holy water without turning his corporation and his demonic essence into a puddle of foul smelling goo. _I’ll ask Aziraphale. He’ll help me for sure!_ Crowley couldn’t think of a good reason the angel would turn him down, and so, for the first time that day, he began to feel a glimmer of hope that things would be OK. 

This glimmer was snuffed out immediately however when Aziraphale flat out refused to help him. Crowley at first couldn’t believe it. But then, the angel had added insult to injury by not only refusing to help, but by referring to their association, their pleasant and enjoyable social relationship as _fraternizing_.

_Fraternizing??_ Who exactly did Aziraphale think he was, using a shameful, secretive word like that to refer to the beautiful fr-... Well, he still couldn’t bring himself to use the other ‘F word’, even inside his own head, but darn it all to heck! He and Aziraphale were _not fraternizing_ ! They were enjoying each other’s company. They were smiling and laughing and spending hours upon hours in the fascinating discussion of a plethora of topics, while they got soused on wine and Crolwey watched Aziraphale put away baked goods. That _meant something_ didn’t it? How dare the angel sully what they had together by using such an unfeeling word to describe it?

Crowley was angry. And he was hurt. _And_ he was confused. Why would Aziraphale deny helping him this one request? He was pretty sure holy water could be found virtually everywhere Upstairs. In fact, if they had _any_ water Upstairs, there was a good bet that it was holy. Couldn’t he just dip in a ladle, put it in some sort of tupperware container (or whatever passed for tupperware in 1862) and hand it to Crowley?

_I’m not giving you a suicide pill Crowley!_ Aziraphale’s anguished face when he’d refused Crowley’s request and his subsequent words echoed back in the demon’s mind.

Maybe the angel just feared for Crowley’s safety? That would be nice. To have someone fear for his safety. No one had ever done that before. But then he’d gone and said _that word_ . That unfeeling, cold word. And he’d said it with a sneer. Aziraphale never sneered, and yet, he’d spit out the word _fraternizing_ like a curse. As if Crowley’s company left a bad taste in his mouth. 

Crowley gritted his teeth and marched home from their meeting at Saint James’ park, intending to lie down and have a nap for a few days to cool off. 

He slept for 79 years. 

  
  


________________________________________

  
  
  


He woke in 1941 with the world’s worst nap hangover. He drank fifteen cups of black tea and probably a gallon of water, and snapped away the ginger beard, rippling ginger locks and decidedly Guinness Book level finger and toenails that had grown, long and tangled while he slept. An extended look out the window informed him that men’s suits had gotten simpler and more streamlined, and that the fedora had replaced the stovepipe hat for gentleman’s evening wear. He snapped up an appropriate outfit, admiring himself for a moment in the mirror in his bedroom with an appraising eye. Not bad. He may be a hideous demon, but he knew how to dress, and that was a fact. He finished the ensemble with a new pair of period appropriate shades and went to go find Aziraphale. It was time to (yet again) make amends with his enemy.

It wasn’t until he was out on the street that he realized what he’d thought was a lingering headache from his nap wasn’t a headache at all. It was the same distress signal he’d felt in the late eighteenth century. The anxious, tingling pull that told him somewhere Aziraphale was in trouble. 

He broke into a run. 

This mode of travel, while highly dramatic, was not at all an efficient way to travel across London in an emergency. Also, his shining, brand new Oxfords weren’t the best for pelting down the street like a madman. He looked out at the traffic gliding by and spotted a sleek, black car. It looked like a crouching jaguar next to the more rounded model T Fords of the early 1940s. _A Bentley._ A beautiful, black, glossy Bentley. He snapped his fingers and another Bentley of the same model, make and color appeared next to him, purring away on the street like a kitten. He hoped the dealership or factory he’d snagged it from didn’t notice that it was missing, but he needed a quick method of transportation, and fast. And in addition to that, _cars were so much better than horses!_ He hopped in and raced off in the direction of the west end.

The church stood, dark and solemn and lonely looking, like all the buildings that hadn’t yet been destroyed in the Blitz. A testament to English tenacity and a gravestone for the loss of countless English lives. The distress call was coming from inside, loud and blaring. The angel was in there, and he was very upset. 

Crowley flung open the door, took a step into the front entrance and immediately jumped back with a hiss at the stinging pain in his feet. Of course. This was hallowed ground, which meant that if Crowley walked into the church, his feet would start to burn from the celestial residue that always hung around in churches and cathedrals. He heard Aziraphale gasp in alarm from somewhere inside, and gritting his teeth, he took a few quick and very painful steps into the church, letting the door bang shut behind him. 

He assessed the situation immediately and came up with a solid plan. He snapped his fingers and rerouted a bomber plane flying several miles east and pulled it westward, then he danced his way painfully down the aisle. 

….

The bomb had worked very well. Almost _too_ well. Crowley had only a few seconds to duck his way under Aziraphale’s protective miracle before they were hit with a big pile of flaming death. At the last millisecond, he used a desperate, lightning fast snap of his fingers to extend the field of protection around the bag of Aziraphale’s books. His precious books. The angel would be so upset to lose them. 

The smoke cleared and then it was just the two of them, standing in the jagged ruins of the church, surrounded by flames and superheated rubble. The angel thanked him, and Crowley companionably told him to shut up.

“Oh the books! I forgot all about the books!” Aziraphale’s happy face melted into misery and he looked around hopelessly, tears just beginning to form in his storm cloud eyes.

Crowley suppressed a grin as he walked over and bent down, pulling Aziraphale’s precious bag of books from the grip of the Nazi agent’s disembodied hand that stuck up out of a nearby pile of rubble. “Little demonic miracle of my own,” he drawled as Aziraphale, looking like he was under a trance of some sort, reached out a hand and grasped the handle. Aziraphale’s forefinger grazed Crowley’s thumb as the bag was passed from demon to angel. It was the first and only time they’d ever touched each other. Crowley felt the soft, silky slide of that thumb, an accidental touch. A meaningless touch, thrill him to the core. 

He’d missed Aziraphale. Even though he’d been asleep, he’d missed him. The realization struck him in the center of his chest, in that warm place that always flared up when he saw Aziraphale. “Lift home?” He asked casually, because he had to. Because he couldn’t say goodnight and goodbye yet. Not after almost eighty years. 

He sauntered away towards where the Bentley was parked, posh and gleaming across the street. He could hear the stumbling footsteps of Aziraphale behind him as the angel picked his way through the rubble to follow him, and he smiled in relief. Based on their last interactions, he wasn’t sure Aziraphale still wanted to be his fr-, his acquaintance. 

He’d dropped Aziraphale off in front of his darkened bookshop and got out to say goodnight properly. The angel stood there, staring at him with a strange look on his face, like he’d just woken up from a very confusing dream. 

“You alright?” Crowley asked, shrugging uncomfortably under that soft, unfocused gaze. Wanting to squirm away from the tenderness of it, and wanting more as well. Wanting Aziraphale to look at him like that all the time. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Just a little discombobulated. You know...with the bomb and all.” Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat with the hand that wasn’t gripping the handle of the bag of books. His eyes flicked away, down to the pavement between them and Crowley silently mourned their loss. 

“Ok then. If you’re all sorted, I’ll just be going…” Crowley let the unspoken request of an invitation hang in the air, not yet moving to actually leave. 

“Yes, It’s rather late isn’t it. I have to get these back inside,” he lifted the bag and shook it gently. “Have some straightening up to do.”

“I won’t keep you then,” Crowley mumbled, feeling a stab of bitter disappointment swelling his throat closed. 

“Crowley, before you leave…” 

Crowley looked up hopefully, back into those eyes that were like dark pools under the shuttered lamplight of the pavement where they stood. “I wanted to say thank you again,” Aziraphale started.

“You really don’t have to angel. It was only the decent thing to do.”

“Yes, but all the same Crowley, thank you.” The angel’s voice was gentle and low, and he took a hesitant step closer, close enough so that they could probably touch if either of them were so inclined. Crowley’s fingertips itched with the urge to reach out and do just that. “You don’t know how important these books are to me,” Aziraphale continued, apparently dedicated to thoroughly embarrassing Crowley with his soft praise and softer eyes. 

“Yeah, you’re welcome. No biggie.” Crowley scuffed the tip of his shoe into the rough surface of the pavement and felt his face go hot. 

Aziraphale took another step closer, close enough now so that Crowley could smell the lavender and vanilla scent of his hair and skin. Close enough so that he could easily see the unshed tears shimmering in the angel’s large, dark eyes. “Crowley”, he said hesitantly, “I think perhaps that there’s something I should-”

Crowley sucked in a sudden breath and cleared his throat, taking a step back. Things had gotten very very intimate all of a sudden. They shouldn’t be seen out on the street like this. Standing so close. Looking at each other all soft like this. What if they were spotted? What if this warm feeling inside his chest swelled up and spilled out of his eyes and he thoroughly embarrassed himself? He felt his heart pounding like a timpani drum inside his chest. “Angel, it was nothing. Really. Just what any decent bloke would do. I have to go. Goodnight!” 

And with that, he turned away and climbed quickly into the Bentley. He didn’t dare look back as he drove away, heart hammering and eyes going blurry. 

Something strange had happened while he slept. The warm spot at the center of his chest when he saw Aziraphale had spread out to envelop his whole body. It unfurled down into his stomach and out along his arms and legs and curled at the base of his throat and made every part of him sing gently in a way that he knew he’d never felt before. 

_This probably isn’t a good development_ , he thought as he sped away into the darkness. When he could finally summon up the courage to look in the rearview mirror, all he could see of Aziraphale was a rapidly receding glow in the darkened street. 

  
  


______________________________________

  
  


The warm feeling did not go away. It did not lessen either. In fact, alarmingly, it grew stronger, and warmer and filled Crowley up until he felt maybe his skin could not contain all of it. 

The feeling grew somehow warmer still when the angel met him in 1967, outside of the seedy nightclub where he’d arranged a heist to procure some holy water. He plunked himself down into the driver’s seat of the Bentley and looked over, only to see that Aziraphale had materialized in the passenger seat, a guilty look on his face and a tartan thermos clutched in his hands. 

After all this time. After refusing to help Crowley and yelling that he didn’t need him, after saying he wouldn’t under any circumstances bring Crowley holy water, and here was the angel, his eyes sad and worried, handing over an entire thermos of the stuff. All Crowley could do was ask if Aziraphale wanted a lift anywhere. He clung to social pleasantries so that he didn’t do something else. Something inexcusable and very very sentimental. 

“You go too fast for me Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a voice that ached with sadness, and then he simply got out of the Bentley and walked away, leaving a very confused demon behind. 

He knew the angel must be conflicted. He knew that his side was probably putting on the pressure as the Apocalypse approached, but this hot and cold routine was painful. Of course, upon reflection, Crowley had been putting distance between them as well for safety’s sake. And unlike Aziraphale, who probably wanted to go for a nice lunch somewhere or, as he’d stated in the Bentley to “go for a picnic, dine at the Ritz,” Crowley wanted different things. Things that made his face burn and his heart swell. Things that were best left unthought for the time being.

____________________________

Far too soon, Crowley had a wicker basket full of baby Antichrist shoved into his hands in a graveyard by creepy Hastur and sneaky Ligur. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want the responsibility of it. And worst of all, he didn’t want what was surely to follow, once the baby had grown up into Satan only knew what kind of horrible monstrosity. 

He’d called Aziraphale in a panic and the two of them had gotten very very drunk. Crowley had almost blurted it out then, in the depths of a three-bottles-of-wine-bender. He’d almost told Aziraphale about this feeling that swelled inside his chest like warm honey and made his thoughts all hazy. 

The words had almost fallen from his lips. And still, he’d kept them inside. Luckily, Aziraphale had prudently suggested that they sober up before Crowley could open his mouth and let that warmth spill out into the air and make a fool out of himself. 

They’d hatched up a scheme to help raise the boy.

They’d helped raise the boy, only to learn eleven years later that it was the _wrong bloody boy_.

They’d gone on a madcap trip to Tadfield to search for clues. 

When Aziraphale had remarked breathlessly that the whole area was full of “flashes of love,” Crowley panicked and told him he was being ridiculous. 

They’d met at the bandstand in the park and Crowley had begged Aziraphale (well, _explicitly asked_ , which for a demon was akin to begging wasn’t it?) to run away with him to the stars. It was the only way he could think of for them both to stay safe. Aziraphale had flatly refused. Crowley had called them _friends._ He’d finally said it, and Azirpahale had spit it back in his face. _We’re not friends!_

The words had burned as if Aziraphale had flung the contents of that tartan thermos into Crowley’s face. Crowley had waited six millenna to call Aziraphale his friend, and the minute he’d done it, Aziraphale had categorically denied their association as being anything more than enemies. They weren’t on the same side. It was over. And then Crowley was guarding his wounded heart and saying “have a nice doomsday” and sauntering away like he didn’t care, leaving Aziraphale and his sad eyes behind in the bandstand. 

Crowley _did_ care though. He cared _a lot_ . He cared as much as it was possible to care.   
  


He loved the earth and he didn’t want it to get destroyed. He loved all the silly humans with their short lifespans and funny ways of looking at things because their lives were so short. He loved London. He loved sunsets. He loved his Bentley. He loved…

he loved….

Shit. _SHIT_. 

shit shit shit shit shit

He loved _Aziraphale_ didn’t he? 

He _loved_ Aziraphale. 

And not just in that sweet, innocent way either. Not in the way that Aziraphale possibly (but probably didn’t) love him back. The nagging feeling of warmth that had first stirred to life inside his chest on the moors of Wessex so many hundreds of years ago had only gotten bigger and wider and more all consuming. Now, it was impossible to ignore any longer. 

Crowley was _in love_ with Aziraphale. It had taken him a very long time to figure this out. Probably far _too_ long, but now that he was willing to face it for what it was, it was becoming a _problem._ Especially considering the fact that the angel he was so madly in love with didn’t ever want to see him again and denied that they’d ever been friends in the first place. 

And then Crowley had run to Aziraphale’s shop after liquifying Ligur and dumping Hastur into his answerphone, to find it wreathed in flames. Fire burst from the doors and windows in crackling orange and yellow streamers. Firefighters were there with their hoses aimed at the conflagration, but it wasn’t doing much good. Crowley had slammed his way through the door and screamed Aziraphale’s name, running around in the smoke and flames, looking desperately for his dearest enemy, for his love. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, but if he was alive, he’d have been at his shop. He loved his books more than life itself, and his books were on fire. The pages fluttering like the wings of brilliant butterflies, fluttering and fading into ash, and Crowley couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t stop it and he couldn’t find Aziraphale, and Aziraphale just had to be discorporated. 

Crowley sobbed desperately, sitting like a fool on the floor of a burning book shop, feeling as if it was his own body burning down around him. His own heart going up in flames. It was then that he’d seen Agnes Nutter’s fabled book, lying nearby, coated in a thick layer of gray ash. He grabbed it and dusted it off dejectedly. It was the only thing left of Aziraphale he had, and so he took it with him when he finally found the strength to leave the burning, smoking building. 

He’d gotten rip roaring drunk at a local pub. What else was there to do now, except mourn the loss of his beloved angel and drink until he didn’t feel so horrible anymore. Two bottles of whiskey in and he only felt more horrible _and_ maudlin to boot. 

In a flash of lightning, Aziraphale appeared, and Crowley thought his heart had quite literally sprouted wings and was now flying about above his head with how happy he was. No, Aziraphale didn’t actually have a body, but he was there! Urging Crowley to head to Tadfield Airbase and being oblivious as usual.

Things went a bit mad then. There was the showdown at the Airbase, where all sorts of daft things happened. As Mr. L was pushing his way up from Downstairs, and Crowley was kneeling, wracked with terror, waiting for death to rain down on him and Aziraphale and all the humans (and the Antichrist, who looked suspiciously like an adorable 11 year old boy), Aziraphale had grabbed his sword and hefted it menacingly. Then he’d said _those words._

“Come up with something! Or I’ll never talk to you again!” 

_That cheeky bastard_. He knew Crowley well enough to know that this was a threat that carried a lot of weight. And Crowley had done something alright. He’d hurled his arms skyward (because why do anything if you couldn’t do it dramatically?). He’d created a bubble of stopped time so that they could have a chat with Adam without the world crashing down around their ears. 

And it had worked! Adam saved the day, choosing his human side, rather than his demonic one. Crowley found this very interesting indeed, being that he too was demonic. Perhaps he too could be redeemed? 

And then they’d had to come up with the plan to swap bodies. Crowley was regrettably too terrified of imminent discovery and discorporation to fully enjoy the sensual pleasure of inhabiting the angel’s body. Despite his almost crippling fear, he felt he’d put on a flawless performance. And to be fair, Gabriel (that complete and utter twat) hadn’t spent enough time getting to know Aziraphale to figure out that his body was being worn by a demon with a sassy attitude. 

The trip Upstairs, while highly nerve-wracking, had given Crowley a very interesting glimpse into Aziraphale’s relationship with his superiors. They were horrible. Officious, litigious, cold, unfeeling bastards. He felt a pang of sympathy at the thought that his soft, precious angel had had to deal with these wankers for so many millennia. Suddenly, Aziraphale’s hot and cold responses to Crowley’s requests for more connection made so much sense. The angel was caught between conflicting desires. The desire to be closer to Crowley, to be his friend, was continually undercut by his fear of misbehaving. The other angels had hammered it in deep that Aziraphale existed to enact God’s will and for no other reason than that. He was _not_ an individual. Simply a cog in a machine. And not a particularly important cog either. 

The other angels didn’t care that Aziraphale had an irreverent sense of humor, or that he got misty eyed around babies. They didn’t know or care that Aziraphale insisted on using one, massive marshmallow in his cocoa, instead of several little ones like a normal person. They couldn’t care less that Aziraphale was kind or sweet or tender hearted. They just wanted him to get the bloody job done. 

Crowley loathed them all. 

The angel was successful as well on his trip Downstairs (if a little bit shook up), and then they were free! Free at last. For Crowley though, that freedom didn’t feel quite as expansive and relieving as it might for the angel. Crowley was still laboring to contain this warm feeling that was pushing at the edges of his skin from the inside, pushing to spill out of his eyes and nose and mouth, to spill from the tips of his fingers. He was no longer just a demon. He was a demon filled to the brim with love for his enemy. And his enemy wanted nothing more than a few drinks after dinner at the Ritz. 

  
  


_______________________________________

Dinner _was_ very nice. If Crowley hadn’t been almost completely absorbed with hiding his feelings from Aziraphale, he might have enjoyed it a bit more. It didn’t help at all that it was insanely romantic. They ordered champagne. There were candles. And posh little cakes. And an army of plates piled with delicate French things and tasty meats in drizzled sauces. A piano played soft jazz in the background. It was ridiculous really.

Crowley raised his glass in a toast and said “To the world,” because he couldn’t say lots of other things, and Aziraphale said it back with such a soft, shy look that Crowley almost spilled the beans then and there. But he didn’t. He smiled back and sipped his champagne and tried a few bites of the delicate piles of French things on plates. He did _not_ fall to his knees and kiss the angel’s hand. And he definitely did _not_ suggest that perhaps they go back to Aziraphale’s place after dinner so that Crowley could very swiftly remove all of Aziraphale’s clothing and spend some quality time investigating what lay beneath them with his tongue.

Still, despite the fact that Crowley was just a squirming bag of suffering anxiety wrapped in a nice black suit jacket with a red collar, the evening was quite pleasant. They joked and laughed. They recounted tales of what had transpired earlier that day and talked about how grateful they were to still be here, in their favorite place...to still be together. Aziraphale didn’t say as much explicitly, but he said the words “I’m awfully glad we can have dinner like this Crowley...you know...without anyone watching.” And then his eyes flicked bashfully down to the chocolate tort on his plate and his cheeks went pink. 

Crowley gritted his teeth. 

After dinner, Aziraphale had invited Crowley over for drinks, and Crowley, feeling like he’d hate himself more for saying no than saying yes, had accepted with a grumbled “sure angel. Whatever you want.”

Soon, they were both sitting in their favorite places, Aziraphale in his ancient, overstuffed armchair, and Crowley lounging in a reptilian fashion across Aziraphale’s equally ancient sofa in the back room of the shop. Both of them had glasses of wine, but Crowley hadn’t touched his. He had the feeling that being filled to the tippy top with burning, hopeless, unrequited love would become exponentially harder to manage if he were drunk. 

Aziraphale had no such compunction and polished off three glasses while chatting amiably about random things involving books before he noticed that Crowley wasn’t drinking. 

“Crowley dear, you haven’t had a sip of your wine. And you’re awfully quiet. Is something the matter?” 

“Nothing’s the matter. M’fine.” Crowley mumbled, slouching further into the cushions of the sofa and wishing he could sink through it, deep into the ground and maybe emerge on the other side, in a foreign country. Perhaps Australia.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale scolded. “You’re clearly upset about something. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”

Crowley let out a sardonic bark of laughter. “I don’t think you’d understand,” he said, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He was well and truly fucked at this point. Doomed to spend eternity, pining away for an angel that wouldn’t even admit that they were friends, let alone love Crowley back in the way Crowley so desperately loved him. 

“Crowley! Don’t be silly. We’ve been through a lot together. I’m certain I’d be able to understand what’s bothering you. You should get it out in the open. If you hold stuff in like this it will only give you nerves.”

Crowley sighed a deep, ragged sigh. Maybe he _should_ speak his mind. What was the alternative? Another six thousand years of anguished yearning? 

“Well,” he began, getting to his feet and taking a defensive stance, preparing to bolt for the door if need be. “It’s quite simple really. I um. Well…” He wasn’t off to the best start. Maybe it would be easier if he went back to the beginning and moved forward from there.

“When we met, I thought you were a complete idiot.” There..that was much better. Crowley flinched at his brain’s choice of words, but powered through anyway. “You were far too nice and far too trusting when we met up on the wall that day. I thought ‘this bloke is just asking to be taken advantage of.’ But for some reason, you trusted me. You were really friendly, and it made an impression.”

“Oh Crowley, you were such a nice demon! How could I not be friendly? I-”

“Aziraphale, please, just shut up and let me finish alright?” Crowley’s palms were damp and his heart was pounding. He didn’t need Aziraphale’s perky little side comments at the moment.

Aziraphale shot him a mildly reproachful look, but he obediently shut his mouth and let Crowley continue. 

“Then, because, you know, it was my job to spy on you, (sorry about that again by the way), I kept ‘bumping into you’ now and then, and I got to know you better. I still thought you were a bumbling idiot, but you were good company.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed, but Crowley forged on, ignoring him. 

“As the centuries and the millennia crept by and I spent more and more time with you, I really started to...well...to like you. You’re funny. And you’re kind and you’re so very- well, I’m getting ahead of myself here. I liked you is the point I’m trying to make. 

“As we got closer, and we worked on the Arrangement together, and you found out about my spying and you didn’t write me off completely...when you forgave me eventually...I liked you more and more.”

“I like you too Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley allowed the slip up, because the angel said it so sweetly and softly and fell silent again, looking up at Crowley with those gigantic blue-gray-green ocean eyes. 

“Yes...well...um…” Crowley, momentarily derailed by the compliment and feeling his cheeks heat up, rallied swiftly and continued. “When I found out about the Apocalypse, I was really scared for the earth, and all the humans, but what was almost worse, was I was scared for _us_ . For you and me. I thought for sure they’d make us fight each other. That they’d make you come after me with a sword, and I just couldn’t...I just...I didn’t think I could bear that.” He felt his throat close up suddenly and felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. _Fantastic_ , he thought. _Just bloody fantastic._

After a brief pause, he swallowed hard and somehow found the strength to go on. “I didn’t want to lose you,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t want us to stop...being together. Spending time together.”

“I didn’t either Crowley,” Aziraphale interjected gently again. 

“ _Please angel_.”

“I’m sorry! I promise to shush up now Crowley.”

Crowley nodded and forged on miserably. “I think it was in your tent at Wessex that I first felt it, this swelling warm feeling right here,” he pressed a hand to the center of his chest, dropping his gaze away from Aziraphale’s face, unable to stand his glowing eyes a moment longer. “I didn’t know what it meant, but...it got stronger and stronger, and it didn’t ever go away.” 

“Oh _Crowley_ ,” the words were spoken so softly that Crowley could barely hear them. 

“Well, this feeling...this warm feeling in my chest, it just got bigger and bigger and stronger and stronger. It’s...It feels like...Well, if I’m perfectly honest angel, I think it’s love. I think I love you. In fact, that’s bollocks,” Crowley shook his head. He was done with lying. “Truth is, I _know_ that I love you. I’m only pretending to be uncertain about it to keep my heart from being ripped to pieces when you tell me you can’t feel the same way. I absolutely, one hundred and ten percent love you. And not just in a cute, sweet, sentimental way...though yes, I do love you in a sweet way, but _in addition_ to that, I love you in a very ardent, very passionate, very _sexual_ way as well. And I know you’ll find that disgusting, and that makes me feel even worse. Satan help me, this is so _embarrassing._ ” The tears in his eyes spilled over and fled down his cheeks and he couldn’t help a ragged noise from escaping his mouth. He covered his traitorous mouth with both hands then and shook with silent sobs, unable to go on. 

“Oh Crowley. Crowley dearest,” Crowley heard the angel get up and come over to him. He couldn’t bear to be the object of Aziraphale’s pity, so he backed away, still weeping, putting up one of his hands to keep the angel away from him. 

“D-don’t come near me!” He yelped, his voice cracking and wet with tears. “I know you don’t feel the same way. I know you can’t ever love me back. I know you don’t even see me as your f-friend! Just some bloke to drink with when you get lonely. I’m worthless! I’m a stupid, worthless, dishonest, horrible demon!” Now that the floodgates had been opened, all of Crowley’s demonic self esteem issues were pouring out with his pathetic love confession. He still had the sense to be horrified by this, but he was crying too hard to care.

“Crowley! Shut up and listen to me!” Was it Crowley’s imagination, or was there a subtle echo of angelic power behind Aziraphale’s command? As if there was a deeper current beneath the angel’s voice that carried an unseen weight and presence Crowley hadn't heard before. Whatever it was, it effectively silenced the demon, who dropped his hand, but unfortunately, could not seem to stop weeping. 

“Please Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was softer now. “You’re being very silly and not very nice to yourself. And...and…” Aziraphale took a deep breath and gently gripped Crowley’s now very damp hand, pulling it carefully away from Crowley’s mouth. “I owe you an apology,” he said, and something about his voice, the thickness and tone of it made Crowley look up again. 

Aziraphale was crying too. Big tears were leaking from his eyes and tumbling down his flushed cheeks and his face was set in an expression of deep, aching sadness. “I’ve been a horrible friend,” he said. “I’ve let you think I didn’t return your feelings, and I’ve pushed you away so, so many times. It is _you_ who should be disgusted by _me_ Crowley dear, not the other way around. I was so scared of Gabriel and the rest, so bloody scared of not doing what I was told… I couldn’t show you how I really felt. I was...well, quite frankly my darling, I was terrified.” 

Crowley blinked. “You think of me as a friend?” He asked, hating how his voice made him sound like a frightened seven year old. 

“Of course I do Crowley. You are my best and dearest and only friend in all the world,” Aziraphale said as he looked at Crowley with wet, shing eyes, a small smile flickering to life across his face. “And I _do_ love you back. Quite ardently. I’m just rubbish at showing it.”

“You...you love me back?” Crowley felt his whole mental reality crumbling and swiftly rebuilding itself. His mouth fell open in shock. “Love me...like...romantically love me? Not like you love ice cream and puppies and ferris wheels right?”

“Perhaps I can show you,” Aziraphale murmured, and he stepped closer and took Crowley’s face in his achingly soft hands. 

Crowley gasped as a wave of angelic essence burst from the palms of Aziraphale’s hands and cascaded through him. He was suddenly drowning in warmth, warmth and more than that. He felt a torrent of joy and flames of lust and heard trumpets playing quietly in the distance. Improbably, he heard birdsong and bells chiming. He felt a rushing river of passionate love wash through him, leaving him senseless and full of nameless pleasure in its wake. His eyes slid closed and his knees buckled at the pure volume of the feelings pouring through him from the angel’s hands on his face. 

Aziraphale withdrew his hands after another few seconds, and Crowley’s eyes flew open to see a contrite looking angel, peering at him with concern. “Are you alright Crowley? I’m told that an angel’s love can be a very intense thing to experience ‘full blast’ as it were. I hope I didn’t overwhelm you.” 

“Ngk,” said Crowley. With Aziraphale’s help he somehow found his way back to the sofa and collapsed onto it, breathless. Azirpahale sat primly at his side, giving him space and waiting patiently for him to come down from the flood of feelings. 

“You, you really do love me back.” he managed after a few minutes of processing time spent trying to catch his breath and calm his galloping heart.

“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale smiled broadly at him. “Very much,” he added, which after the veritable waterfall of ardor and caring compassion and (rather saucy) tingling feelings the angel had just imparted to him, seemed like the world’s largest understatement. 

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Well, that’s good then.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, nodding.

“Can I...do you think I could maybe-”

“Kiss me?” Aziraphale finished for him. “Of course. Here, just let me…” and then he gently removed Crowley’s sunglasses and put them aside before leaning over and putting his mouth on Crowley’s.

More trumpets. More birdsong. More torrents of warm love spilled through the angel’s lips and into Crowley’s body. He squeaked helplessly and melted into Aziraphale’s embrace, feeling the angel’s warm, strong arms folding him up and holding him tightly. 

The kiss went on for some time, and eventually, Crowley found that he could actively kiss back, instead of just sitting there, making undignified noises while the angel moved their mouths together. He threaded his fingers through Aziraphale’s silky hair and sighed happily as they continued snogging like fools.

They broke apart eventually, Aziraphale looking very pink and rather mussed up. Crowley _had_ done a lot of tugging and stroking of his hair after all, and the wild white blond tresses were sticking up all over the place. His stormy eyes had gone dark and gleaming and his lips were bruised and parted gently. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Crowley said, entranced by the sight of the well-kissed angel in his arms. 

“Oh Crowley, it’s you who’s the beautiful one.” Aziraphale smiled at him, and it was like the sun had just burst over the horizon to bathe Crowley in a golden beam of light. Ridiculous, lovely angel.

“M’not beautiful,” Crowley mumbled, ducking his head, trying to hide his sickly yellow eyes from Aziraphale’s (obviously love-blinded) gaze. “M’ugly. Always have been. Ever since I fell.” 

“Nonsense! You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s face with a fingertip under his chin and sought out his eyes, looking deeply into them in a way that made Crowley fight to keep from flinching away from him. “The moment I first saw you, I was struck dumb by your beauty. But I suppose you didn’t notice, being that you were busy thinking I was an idiot.” The angel smiled shyly. “Crowley, you have no clue what you look like do you? Didn’t the humans tell you how attractive you are? I’m sure many of them noticed…”

“Yeah, they did,” Admitted Crowley, remembering veritable piles of human men and women who’d tried to push their way into his bed over the millennia. “But I just assumed it was my demon sex mojo, not my actual self.” 

“Your demon... sex mojo…” Aziraphale trailed off, looking confused, but rallied quickly. “Crowley, it isn’t any sort of _mojo_ , whatever that is. It’s _you_. You’re stunning. Your copper hair and your lovely yellow eyes, and...well...your body is very very nice. I can’t believe you didn’t notice me looking all these centuries.”

“You like my eyes?” Crowley was immediately stuck on that particular detail. He’d always hated his eyes. They’d always reminded him of a slimy serpent when he saw them in the mirror. Much like Hasture’s pitch black eyes or Ligur’s eyes that changed color depending on his surroundings. The stuff of nightmares. It was half the reason he wore his shades so often, even when he and the angel were alone together. 

“Oh dear me yes,” Aziraphale cooed, taking Crowley’s face back into his hands and gazing deeply into the aforementioned ugly yellow orbs with their black slits. “They’re simply beautiful. Such a lovely color. And, well, they’re rather sexy if I do say so myself,” he turned a charming pink color and his gaze drifted down from Crowley’s eyes to rest on his mouth. 

“Oh,” breathed Crowley, feeling stunned.

And then they were kissing again. This time, it was with quite a bit more enthusiasm than the last time. Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hands running down the length of his sides and gripping him by the waist and he resumed making a mess of the angel’s hair, and they kissed and kissed. 

Eventually, Crowley asked if perhaps they could find somewhere to be horizontal together, and Aziraphale led him up to his room on the second floor. There, many articles of clothing were swiftly removed and Crowley finally had the extreme pleasure of seeing what it was Aziraphale had going on underneath that bowtie and that ever present waistcoat. He had the extreme pleasure of doing many, many things he’d wanted to do for many many years. It was...well, it was very good indeed. 

Afterwards, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms and tangled up in a number of very ruined sheets, flushed and loose and smiling. 

“I’m cold blooded you know,” Crowley remarked as he interlaced his fingers with Aziraphale’s and sighed happily. “And you,” he added, “are very, very warm.” He wriggled closer to Aziraphale to illustrate his point.

“I am yes,” Aziraphale agreed, nuzzling his face just a bit further into the crook of Crowley’s neck and sighing himself. “I’ve been told as much many times. Glad you’re enjoying it.”

“You’ve….Who’s gotten close enough to tell you you’re warm?” Crowley’s fingers stilled in their dreamy caressing of Aziraphale’s upper arm and he felt his chest go tight. 

“Oh Crowley, you’re being a silly old serpent. The _humans_. I didn’t go through the entirety of human existence without having a cuddle or two. I believe I’m what people these days call ‘a hugger.’ Don’t worry your head over it. You are the first and only person I’ve ever had...carnal relations with.” He patted Crowley’s chest reassuringly and squeezed Crowley’s hand where it was still interlaced with his own. 

“Alright,” Crowley relaxed with a small sigh and continued the movement of his fingertips against Azirapahle’s ridiculously soft skin. “That’s good then.” He paused for a moment, enjoying the silky heat of the angel’s embrace before adding, “I haven’t done this with anyone else either. Seemed wrong. And then, as time went by, I didn’t want anyone but you.”

“Well, I think that’s rather lovely,” Aziraphale replied. “Let's do it again soon shall we?” 

“Yes angel,” Crowley nodded, pulling Aziraphale impossibly closer and kissing the top of his head. “Yes, let's.” 

_______________________________

  
  


The next day, they had crepes for breakfast. Then they took a lovely walk in Saint James’ park and fed the ducks. The sun was shining and Crowley couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. He was relaxed and well loved and truly happy for the first time in a long time. 

“Have I told you how glad I am that the world didn’t end?” He asked his angel as they strolled down the street, back to Aziraphale’s shop (where they fully intended to do some more naked experimentation and maybe have a short nap). 

“You have my dear,” Aziraphale smiled at him and squeezed his hand. He hadn’t let go of it all day. “You have, but I can bear to hear it repeated.” 

“I’m glad the world didn’t end,” Crowley said, leaned over and quickly kissed Aziraphale on the tip of his nose. They continued on with their stroll, as the sun shone and the birds sang, and the world kept spinning onward, remade and unharmed, carrying one happy angel and one happy demon along for the ride. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
